tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83990153872942965652024-03-19T13:04:01.143+00:00She Who Dares WritesA writing life. Award winning Author.Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.comBlogger144125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-20056660424485551772023-06-13T14:20:00.001+01:002023-06-13T14:20:43.938+01:00Stateside firsts and a million wordsHuge blog gap, but I've been hunkered down writing memoir for other people, working on books 36 and 37 of the last ten years. There are five of my own in there, some published, (some not) and about twenty short stories too. I worked out I've written nearly a million words in that time, no wonder arthritus is stiffening my fingers, have to keep them moving!
I gave the writing a rest and recorded the audio book of Girl in the Mirror recently, which should be published soon.
Maybe it was time for a break from writing. Usually, I rarely write on holiday. I forage for stories, snippets and experiences instead, and wherever I go, I look for the books.
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I'd been writing about our first trip to America in 1980 in my memoir. It was my first time abroad, first time flying. I remember the wave of noise from the New York streets as I opened our hotel window, the smell of hot garbage and hot dogs. I felt as if I was in a movie. Seventh visit to the city, and that cinematic familiarity remains, iconic yellow cabs and skyscrapers are film set reality.
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We stay in a new district for us - the hip Gasnevoort meatpacking, among the rich white kids, who pose around the rooftop pool as I pace earnest lengths at 7am. They are more interested in the overpriced cocktails at 7pm. America has become almost prohibiteively expensive, we find NY almost double the price of London when eating out. I appreciate the rooftop view and our proximity to the breeze from the Hudson river in the heat. We miss the Canadian wildfire smoke that blankets the city in apocalyptic orange smog when we escape to Boston. There is so much of the American landscape that is grand, and so much ravaged by a culture high on consumerism.
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I like the new area we've chosen, but wince at my $80 breakfast in a neat nearby cafe, Banter, although the eggs and whipped feta on sourdough are exquisite. We walk miles along the lush Highline park, with diversions to the green dystopia of Little Island and the Spitalfields-like Chelsea Market. Dinner at Balaboosta is delicious, but for a city that never sleeps, New York seems to be having a little nap - restaurants stop serving at 8.30 or 9pm, bars are quiet. Thank goodness for the Irish bars, where Guinesses is still served until late. The Dead Rabbit on Water Street had excellent chicken pot pie to go with our libations.
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We stumble across a Pride outdoor screening event, Movies on the Cobbles - the Premiere of 'The Stroll' in the paza outside our hotel, where the audience make seats from discarded cardboard packaging. I am offered a real chair. The film tells the history of meatpacking from the perspective of transgender sex workers, a reminder that gentrification of local areas sometimes comes at cost to the local community, a debate we engage in by Greenwich with college grads who are gathering data on affordable housing, but they can't define what affordable is - we see ads for 911 call responders starting on 50K in Boston, double the average UK salary.
Walking the city down the Hudson River park past basketball courts and roller skaters, all New York markers, to the 9/11 memorial and the gem of St.Pauls church, looping back up Greenwich through Chelsea and Earl Grey ice cream milkshakes, proves there is always something new to see in New York City, new stories to find. The Whitney art gallery nearby captivates with it's Jaune Quick-to-see Smith, bright multi media canvases with her symbol of the trade canoe and it's preciptious balcomies wiht views over the skyline.
After a few nights we head up from the shiny splendour of the new Moniyhan Hall at Penn Sation. Last time I took a train from Penn to Pennysylvania, tracing the route along the Susquehanna river where the guard asked if my sister (it was my brother, he had long hair) would like to sound the horn on the Amtrack train. I get no such request this time, but I tick off new states as we pass through Rhode Island and Connecticut, winding through swamp lands, forests and alongside beaches and clapperboard houses.
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First time in Boston. We stay at the Fairmont, the stateside sister to The Savoy, with the same marble lobbied grandeur, and a hotel concierge dog with her own Instagram page, a lovely black lab called Cori Copley, who makes us pine for our red lab, and our kids, who used to watch The Suite Life on repeat. The Oak Long bar Negroni is as good as any I've had, though busy, and hard to find a seat, Branzino at dinner one night is excellent, as is a burger found on nearby Newman Street, and the tasty Saltie Girl along the waywhere Rodrigez gives us free Mezcal and tells us about his new sprit business, Holy Spirit, the mezcal is too smoky for me, he assures us his brand is not. We suggest a tag line for his advertising - 'The answer to your prayers.'
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We explore the world's first municipal library in Boston, a palatial edifice with an Italianate quad, the sturdy red Trinity Church with it's beautiful stained glass, Boston Common and the Freedom Trail, the quay and a double art day at The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and the MFA Boaston. The latter, a house musuem stuffed with Singer Sergeant portraits and artefacts from a lifetime of travel of the indomitable American Hieress, Isabella. I'm reminded of the eclectic Talliston House, where I was writer in residence, but this is super sized. We whale watch with Boston Harbour Cruises, and a rewarded with a pair of females, best friends who meet annually for fish fests off Stellwagen, who turn up to wave us off, flukes up.
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Back to NYC and one night at The Andaz in Mid town, where fifth is closed to celebrate National Peurto Rican Day, a joyous bellowingly loud event parade past Saks, we slip inside for a little air conditioning a a moment's peace. Find more books in the New York public library, which is swarmed by a Ghsotbusters convenetion, we see the filming of the latest instalment off Broadway earlier int he week. A coffee in Bryant park, withe a take out bagel from Zuckerberg's proves the cheapest breakfast all week, until our Moroccan taxi driver takes us back to JFK through Queens and buys us free sodas because he likes us.
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Thank you Stateside, for your freindly Bostonians, mad New Yorkers and all those stories. They'll be put to good use.
Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-49308467219086571272021-10-07T12:27:00.003+01:002021-10-07T12:27:20.593+01:00Bernadine Evaristo and memoir<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQCFyFPqs2xKPerTadr1yP46IyFzdYwxm0mW9tejuNEgyYOoCQiF2jiEMUVxPlmjZc4xmhukfxlzH_ksHkPV8O81bxK6S9sOn00pL8cBAhjlnS79MQkkrA8GjdCbGufzqmIOodS623GhCm/s400/2928377056612.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQCFyFPqs2xKPerTadr1yP46IyFzdYwxm0mW9tejuNEgyYOoCQiF2jiEMUVxPlmjZc4xmhukfxlzH_ksHkPV8O81bxK6S9sOn00pL8cBAhjlnS79MQkkrA8GjdCbGufzqmIOodS623GhCm/s400/2928377056612.jpg"/></a></div>
I ought to know a thing or two about memoir. I've written twenty five of them in the last four years. All for other people. Figured out with my own novel, short stories, blogs and articles, that's over 600,000 words, about 150,000 words a year. I could have written War and Peace in that time! I wrote an article about it which you can find in the current issue of Mslexia.
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When anyone I admire writes a memoir, I'm first in the pre order queue, and sniffing to see if I can see any trace of a ghost like me in their writing. Not the case with Bernadine Evaristo, the Booker Prize winner wrote her own, and when I saw she was coming to the Cambridge Literature Festival to talk about it, I was first in the queue to get a ticket.
It was the second in-person bookish event I'd been to in two weeks. Last week was a Story Terrace meet up in London near Tileyard studios. Catching up for lost time.
Bernadine emerged and sat, a bright flame in a cavernous and cold hall, introduced and accompanied by Irenosen Okojie. Both great writers with a couple of MBE's between them
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I'd read Bernadine before she won The Booker, Lara, a novel in verse based on her ancestry, and Mr.Loverman, which still bears the crinkled pages from being read on a humid Caribbean island. Also her contribution to the new Daughters of Africa book and Girl, Woman, Other of course.
I was interested to know why she had deceided to write a memoir, suspected her agent and publlicist saw the opportunity to build on the Booker success, which she confiremd, but Manifesto is not a hastily mashed memoir on the back of success, as so many are. It has integrity and scope. Bernadine said winning the Booker was a natural point for reflection. How did she get there?
She didn't have the appetite to write another novel and having written non fiction in the form of essays and articles, turned to the most intimate form - the memoir. Her organising principle (I'm a sucker for exploring the structure of memoir, having written so many from a similar formula) was to explore her creative evolution and her deeper ancestry and how that shaped the person she became.
'A memoir can be juicy, intimate and confessional.' she says. I know I have been confessed to more times than a priest in the ghost process. She continued, 'I was writing into an absent space, finding absent history.' I might take some issue with this, what about Jackie Kay, and her memoir, Red Dust Road, maybe she's right, that is more classic memoir and not a manual of creativity. 'When you're writing memoir, you can't hide autobiographical detail behind the fiction of it.'
Her final words of advice to an english teacher leading a creative writing group. To get your students to be a good writer.
'Get them to read.' And read widely, I would add, although there is still a lack of diverse texts on the curriculum. In discussion on the train on the way home with my librarian friend, we came across writers of colour when we were at school, but we had to seek them out. It wasn't through school, but through the local library, that I read a diverse experience and I preferred those Virago and Peepal Tree Press published books to the 'classics'
I bought Bernadine's memoir and flicked through 'Manifesto' on the same train, doing what all memoir readers do, head straight to the photgraphs. Those secret shgared images from another life. I'm looking forward to reading the words.Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-23491095162581149392021-04-28T10:28:00.003+01:002021-04-28T10:28:22.749+01:00Stories and Memoirs The past year has seen many turning to reflection and recall. I've had ten memoir clients, almost triple the normal number, which brings the total of life stories I've written for other people to twenty in the last four years. I feel like the Stephen King of ghost writing!
Ineveitably, this time has made me think back on my life, and I have tentaively started my own memoir, about growing up in the '70's and '80's with an autistic brother. You would think I have had enough practice, but the process is hard when it comes to your own life.
The accessible online workshops on writing memoir by Nikesh Shukla were a great help, as was reading his own memoir, <i>Brown Baby</i>
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I had a copy edit of my novel, <i>Absent Year</i> done. It is a work of autofiction, and still on the memoir spectrum. After a cover design, I am plunging it into the world of self publishing. Watch this space.
Writing short stories has helped exercise the creative brain, and I've been inspired by the fantastic Scriptorium zoom workshop run by Bernadette at White Rabbit, and facilitated by Revelation, Ashford. https://revelationashford.co.uk/
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Inspired by reading Monique Roffey <i>The Mermaid of Black Conch</i> and Leone Ross <i>This One Sky Day</i>, I've dipped back into an old favourite, magical realism, and put together a fantastical tale set by the River Mersey, re-visiting some Liverpool roots. It's made me dig out my old Isabelle Allende paperbacks and read her memoir.
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The real world is not as kind, but I've seen my parents and brother have both their jabs, and I've had my first, so am hopeful that things will improve. Meanwhile, back to a deserted carousel on the banks of the river ......
Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-65119868983537267062021-01-04T15:18:00.002+00:002021-01-04T15:18:13.459+00:00Back in the GameThere's no need to explain my absence from the blogosphere. The words.
'It was 2020' sum up everything you need to know.
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Reflecting, it was a remarkably productive year. I had more memoir clients than I have ever had in a twelve month period, nine in fact, and am happy that those books will be published. My words are in print, it's just no-one knows they are my words. I even managed the first 'business trip'of my life, skirting lockdown restrictions with work in Kidderminster, and a one night stay in a travel lodge. Small pleasures. Most of my interviews were remote, over every platform form Zoom thorugh Facebook rooms, and at least I got to travel vicariously as I chatted to clients in Greece and The Bahamas. My one face to face interview was in a garden in Stevenage in the sunshine. Like I said, small pleasures.
It was a year of appreciating the small stuff. A flash fiction published on Mslexia Max and a short story performed as part of a zoom event.
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This year I'm happy to continue ghost writing, will maybe self publish the novel, dabble in poetry, write some more features for websites and magazines and keep sending those short stories on submission.
Get outside every day, see She Who Dares start up again, and all my family and friends happy and healthy. Endure these times with hope and come through with a little more wisdom and a better planet. Let's hope there are no more shadows on the horizon.
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Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-32085989093970326202020-09-21T14:24:00.000+01:002020-09-21T14:24:01.364+01:00Where are we now?What a year! And it's not over yet. Covid meant I was furloughed from my day job, which gave me more time to focus on writing. Story Terrace gained Dragons Den funding and I had new clients, three remote and in the last month, one in person.
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My creative output was funnelled through the life stories of others, but I managed a few short story submissions and put the completed novel, Absent Year, out to agents. And then there was silence.
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I've been frantically trying to create creative noise, while appreciating the pause. Saviours of my sanity has been communication with family and friends, the ability to swim again, cycles and two trips to the coast. Thankful we have a garden, spending time outdoors. Now the autumn shadows push against the sunlit patches, there is a chill in the darkness. We have to hold on to hope.
I read the excellent How to be Hopeful by Bernadette Russell.
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One of two books I've read this year which refers to the pandemic. The other was Ali Smith's - Summer. Although convoluted, her writing still shines, and I listened to a broadcast from the online Cambridge Literary Festival. I saw her there in person in other times. She was talking about Summer in August, when thunder broke the flaming heat and respite from sleepless nights was little. The weather echoed our human condition, we have all had many sleepless nights, there is so much to worry about, so many people to worry for, least of all ourselves. To cope see the previous list and Bernadettes book.
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'If you took the heartbeat of now to a doctor, it would be an emergency.' she says. I could listen to Ali Smth all night, her voice at once reassuring, impish and hopeful, permeating my dreams.
I remember to hang on in there.Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-78193760354840975602020-03-19T15:17:00.000+00:002020-03-19T15:17:11.150+00:00Keep Going!Little did I know when this picture was taken, I'd have travelled half way around the world in the weeks since, and returned to #selfisolation!<br />
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Story Terrace were on Dragon's Den when I was away, and secured backing. More power to the self employed ghost writer elbow. It's going to be a tough year.<br />
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Self isolation has given me time to complete a 40,000 word bio for another client, and I'm emerging into the light to start new projects of my own. One of my life writing pieces was selected to be performed at a live lit event 'Wonder' in Ashford, Kent. Now postponed (for obvious reasons), but there will be podcasts - so watch this space.<br />
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Love and thoughts to all the writers and their families out there. Stay safe, stay well, try to keep smiling (although I wish I had stayed here!)<br />
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Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-54499398363570878722020-01-26T18:05:00.000+00:002020-01-26T18:05:15.181+00:00Telling Histories and life as a ghost writer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB0Y-So4YLCDkF1zC_PMKMBLi-Jdm7b7e3G64qkZuw6kMGjf1l8E1_7GVm4yltPkjOj4513Bz_gznYfcwE2-sDdO50ocTuEMWDmbYeHpCb_XGnBmXpZuQ3uGOETOI9m1VHHdeWc8jKJCj9/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB0Y-So4YLCDkF1zC_PMKMBLi-Jdm7b7e3G64qkZuw6kMGjf1l8E1_7GVm4yltPkjOj4513Bz_gznYfcwE2-sDdO50ocTuEMWDmbYeHpCb_XGnBmXpZuQ3uGOETOI9m1VHHdeWc8jKJCj9/s320/images.jpg" width="320" height="168" data-original-width="310" data-original-height="163" /></a></div><br />
The new year turned and with it a new decade and the 'ten year challenge' reflection. I've been keeping on, keeping on. Ten years ago writing for a living was a dream, now it's a reality, (although it's not exactly for a living. the financial rewards are sparse) but I've got a hook in the world of being a ghost writer, a spectral stealer of other lives. It's a fascinating and all involving occupation, so much so, that the short stories I started in the last months, lie congealing like unfinished food on a plate and the novel, although finished, was been shoved out into the world with barely a wave to send it off. There was an echo around the solstice, the Talliston writers made a podcast, curated and released by the lovely Bernadette Russell. You can listen on a winters night to those stories here:<br />
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https://whiterabbitpresents.podbean.com/e/winter-solstice-2019-talliston-dreams-podcast/ <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDbic48rDBWQTm-xCCVFkWGJnK4xuAUzmtZBEnWpWTsux-HYeizbiwK7v18UiVPWztcOQ-kEUvfn3T_YG4nxyS-R9z44cfvJnCmwniwgjtoTtTuNd037cCFN4Wy72UG4YQsWMpwJDB-qak/s1600/7e4c0e0f-fbb7-4568-87a5-5494d6ee3b71.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDbic48rDBWQTm-xCCVFkWGJnK4xuAUzmtZBEnWpWTsux-HYeizbiwK7v18UiVPWztcOQ-kEUvfn3T_YG4nxyS-R9z44cfvJnCmwniwgjtoTtTuNd037cCFN4Wy72UG4YQsWMpwJDB-qak/s200/7e4c0e0f-fbb7-4568-87a5-5494d6ee3b71.jpg" width="200" height="113" data-original-width="970" data-original-height="546" /></a></div><br />
Back to ghost writing. Telling histories that belong to others. I was tempted by a talk at the British Library on the very same subject, with Sara Collins and Will Eaves. Sara's first novel, The Confessions of Frannie Langton, won the Costa first novel award and is a gothic romance about the love affair between a Jamaican maid and her mistress. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvzkkamXB9_sZYH2fTI9h9tHkqyEdyrJCwA1IR1gQXhG_iXuCA8D6UFGkwu9rw5lrZBd4LFNv-XQ6k9tj_FrorN-qOTUgzJ6AOkP31qvUw1EPNOs3TQNLvSBoJr3s3vAb2VRuhiKOQN7x/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvzkkamXB9_sZYH2fTI9h9tHkqyEdyrJCwA1IR1gQXhG_iXuCA8D6UFGkwu9rw5lrZBd4LFNv-XQ6k9tj_FrorN-qOTUgzJ6AOkP31qvUw1EPNOs3TQNLvSBoJr3s3vAb2VRuhiKOQN7x/s200/download.jpg" width="130" height="200" data-original-width="181" data-original-height="278" /></a></div><br />
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Will is a novelist and poet who had just written a novel, Murmur, a meditation on the life and work of Alan Turing.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9UNYO_qlf-PKlYRVe5UVbxIrNXjLOc5hqnKXJKlawAcWcIn_neen5YMjq7hBiPA6DVVQiEtGWgURfUSdTrH_aWtkKst3zIsAmVjcbJZvASqsIP-zg4tOS790dessM9mSMjNDDAr1gVm0d/s1600/37812760._SY475_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9UNYO_qlf-PKlYRVe5UVbxIrNXjLOc5hqnKXJKlawAcWcIn_neen5YMjq7hBiPA6DVVQiEtGWgURfUSdTrH_aWtkKst3zIsAmVjcbJZvASqsIP-zg4tOS790dessM9mSMjNDDAr1gVm0d/s200/37812760._SY475_.jpg" width="130" height="200" data-original-width="309" data-original-height="475" /></a></div><br />
Their discussions and meditations gave me food for thought and banished the Blue Monday creeping doubts with,'the complexities of inhabiting other voices and what it means to restore incomplete historical narratives.' such are the gaps in ghost writing, when you have the words and memories (to be cherished) of one narrator, unreliable or not. I overheard a lady on the next row of the British Library theatre telling a friend that her son had chosen to say he doesn't remember anything before the age of fifteen when she and her husband split up. So selective and protective is memory and what we wish to share, reflected throughout history.<br />
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Sara says she set out to write a gothic romance, but she wanted a black female star, within her given historical narrative, that meant she had to confront the reality of slavery.<br />
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Will chose the last years in Turing's life as the basis for his writing.<br />
'I as interested in his experience of bodily transformation and how it affected his mind, the book looks at mental reality and the politics of the time, what we say in public spaces and what we believe in another.'<br />
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The writers discussed how we write about what scraps are left for history. My ears pricked up. Will said,<br />
'It's a right of inference, attach the small scant objects, letters and records, give them meaning, it's quite a scientific process.' I'm reminded of how hard the process of ghost writing has been with an 84 year old client and a lifetime of diaries, articles and books he has written. <br />
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Sara said her research has to go so deep in the heart of the book it becomes part of the sub-strata of the novel. She learned the history of slavery, not from school or a textbook, but through a novel. Beloved by Toni Morrison. The best research she did for Frannie, was standing in the garden of a plantation in Jamaica, looking through the window of the big house and seeing the shelves and shelves of books, she got that longing for learning to make the character of Frannie. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvCZl8LQMn8T9uSm3mYJcqPMtut9I-OUj5-N_kH449H74fnn6_DaL4uyM2wJhYAcHxTjRxzI00o2WfZ0f6yijaWAviYMr5DduKkYpDSQTkibF5UtnuX0_yD_CNsOSRL_Q6vQ_AjcCGuPcx/s1600/2350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvCZl8LQMn8T9uSm3mYJcqPMtut9I-OUj5-N_kH449H74fnn6_DaL4uyM2wJhYAcHxTjRxzI00o2WfZ0f6yijaWAviYMr5DduKkYpDSQTkibF5UtnuX0_yD_CNsOSRL_Q6vQ_AjcCGuPcx/s320/2350.jpg" width="320" height="192" data-original-width="300" data-original-height="180" /></a></div>I have just finished a novel in biographical form based on the life of a real person, my nan, a working class woman in the first half of the twentieth century.For me the research involved many trips to Manchester, to stand again outside the privet hedges of a council estate and balance on the town hall steps in Albert Square. I used the paintings of Ford Madox Brown to show what would happen to a mind that had previously been excluded access to art. I don't know that Muriel ever saw the Manchester Murals, or his other paintings, but I could infer her reaction because I knew about another passion, her love of dance.<br />
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If you tell the story of someone whose story has never been told, you become the only teller and if a narrative has done its work it tells you all levels of truth about that person. As a ghost writer, you have to make the truth that narrative.<br />
Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-5918813636919346502019-10-28T10:02:00.000+00:002019-10-28T10:02:15.293+00:00Word up! Performing the spoken word<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVR6PBxr8IeZpwEmCj_TKB17R8tfAwi5nQSFsGyjtHTbD7tI9H5YpDcXNJfFggkEJvWAAD5PryboT8XYtRqKXmP3fkIiETw_A9LFHqMkRgPT5sPfDnufaV2MuhZDNj7wq7rZigfbIkxFt/s1600/the+horn+bs.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVR6PBxr8IeZpwEmCj_TKB17R8tfAwi5nQSFsGyjtHTbD7tI9H5YpDcXNJfFggkEJvWAAD5PryboT8XYtRqKXmP3fkIiETw_A9LFHqMkRgPT5sPfDnufaV2MuhZDNj7wq7rZigfbIkxFt/s320/the+horn+bs.png" width="320" height="320" data-original-width="225" data-original-height="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHffNKfxpTEoqSdcr0pIqqd6dET0BGIJXCWnhzz908Z3DBFZCEKakMf3sJ7HWb5PZzVi0PqQgd8vo641bly8HIl-c-AF-h1jXF0xbqpkX4kZTQFSLilPCFDgpNXXcuY_x59DrkrC1z3d9/s1600/word+up+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHffNKfxpTEoqSdcr0pIqqd6dET0BGIJXCWnhzz908Z3DBFZCEKakMf3sJ7HWb5PZzVi0PqQgd8vo641bly8HIl-c-AF-h1jXF0xbqpkX4kZTQFSLilPCFDgpNXXcuY_x59DrkrC1z3d9/s200/word+up+me.jpg" width="150" height="200" data-original-width="720" data-original-height="960" /></a></div>Last week saw the culmination of months of planning, the inaugural Word up! Event, to celebrate emerging and established local writers. Someone asked me if it was a regular thing and seemed a little surprised when I said I'd never done it before! Transferable skills I suppose - teaching lends itself to event planning. If you can run lessons and workshops for thirty small, wilful individuals, and keep them engaged and interested, (like herding cats) forty adults in the backroom of a pub is child's play. <br />
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It didn't stop the nerves, the stage light was so dazzling I could barely see the words I was trying to read; palms sweating, mike booming, a bolt of panic threaten to ambush my night. I chased it back into it's box, inspired by the performance I'd seen a few nights previous - the legend that is Cher, who had encouraged the audience to 'do something fabulous.' I put on my glittery shirt and a velvet jacket. <br />
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It was a perfect pick and mix of styles. I read a short story that was entered for The Moth prize, followed by a clutch of poets (a possom of poets); Beverley Morris with her moving set, Tom Lee and his spoken word themes on climate change, (the lyricism of his work reminded me of Dylan Thomas) Julie Walker, The Parkinality Poet - Light relief on a serious subject, giggles rippled around the room, followed by a prior Writer in Residence, a short story from Emma Vandore. Then the talented and engaging musician, Tom Ryder (our profits went to his organisation - Retune). First time poetry performer; Lucy Ireland Gray, Lesley Mace with flash fiction and poems, John Tarrow with a novel extract from The Strangers Guide and Sarah Wragg with a hilarious adaptation of Red Riding Hood, rounded off with stories and songs from Pat Crilly and Greg Camburn.<br />
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The whole thing wouldn't have been possible without the support of friends and family, book group, fellow Talliston Writer's in Residence, local writing groups and musicians. It's a generous and precious community and it's good to cherish and celebrate it. Feels like we should make this the first of many, next year maybe?<br />
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Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-70862221677799035192019-09-30T11:58:00.000+01:002019-09-30T11:58:19.157+01:00She who dares annual weekender!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7SBQs7lORsmGbV1DgeAfiyLQEEh-7SbosN8r00WMCqEj57ZHNT57NFXjyViKTVPEzP7xe5xn0LR3lRSgCCnd26IYYr-alq2hWHcT_H-DxfEXF_B0RooelDxQzaZnGpyARW2kkVytYTHxV/s1600/37cddeb0-8b86-49ef-9c35-a473d32deaa4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7SBQs7lORsmGbV1DgeAfiyLQEEh-7SbosN8r00WMCqEj57ZHNT57NFXjyViKTVPEzP7xe5xn0LR3lRSgCCnd26IYYr-alq2hWHcT_H-DxfEXF_B0RooelDxQzaZnGpyARW2kkVytYTHxV/s400/37cddeb0-8b86-49ef-9c35-a473d32deaa4.JPG" width="400" height="225" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="900" /></a></div><br />
It's been a tradition within the group to share an annual weekend away since we began over thirty years ago. We've been bridge swinging in Scotland, coasteering in Wales, treasure trailing in Cardiff, gorge walking in the Lakes, walking in Derbyshire, sailing in Essex, adventures that have taken us near and far.<br />
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We've stayed in tents, cottages, pubs, camping barns and this year, a caravan park. Marlie caravan park in Kent is a traditional family site, it has a clubhouse, live entertainment, a shop, swimming pool and meat raffle. The staff and guests seemed bemused by a group of middle aged women with twenty changes of clothes a piece, but not a dress or heels between them. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeQw4GeMZNy_EBW2weG1ZqOVvAwLrhyupicKdsTkSAYeKKOPa0ai_PMpLrXdDf0B7aA3qGugVDss3UpYvQIkiPKaRoQyvg5YSaF30h30cGiGXEhwMKLfEoIlsXYs7TAt3N2pawpNRoKWIL/s1600/IMG_2288.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeQw4GeMZNy_EBW2weG1ZqOVvAwLrhyupicKdsTkSAYeKKOPa0ai_PMpLrXdDf0B7aA3qGugVDss3UpYvQIkiPKaRoQyvg5YSaF30h30cGiGXEhwMKLfEoIlsXYs7TAt3N2pawpNRoKWIL/s320/IMG_2288.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="240" data-original-height="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-mzTu7Oox5Pe3TUu0VHXd0Zs0hXPUxe8OX_M1mda8IPUizNaOkVhd4JsVR5SvayanatLTjExE6iezVM84mH3-9tTobw6ydLYfCw6vcsdjbAhyphenhyphenBny88T06n7LnbVhmdhfGxGeeH8ncy4n7/s1600/IMG_2279.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-mzTu7Oox5Pe3TUu0VHXd0Zs0hXPUxe8OX_M1mda8IPUizNaOkVhd4JsVR5SvayanatLTjExE6iezVM84mH3-9tTobw6ydLYfCw6vcsdjbAhyphenhyphenBny88T06n7LnbVhmdhfGxGeeH8ncy4n7/s320/IMG_2279.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="320" data-original-height="240" /></a></div>Friday we arrived and headed straight out to do a treasure trail in Rye. Home to the writer of Captain Pugwash (I may have mentioned that a few times), an original cinque port and centre of trade for millennia, Rye is a picturesque town of cobbled streets, inns and cottages, art galleries and antique shops. We stumbled over the cobbles in our pursuit of clues, discovering it's history, distracted by its sweet and gift shops, until we made it to Marino's for fish and chips, (pie and chips in my case, it was a pie sort of weekend). The rain held off long enough for us to complete our trail and return to wine and cards in the caravan. Petra and I attempted the Disney music bingo and stayed to check out the cabaret. The bingo caller changed into a leopard print dress and launched into song, having failed to win a free gas bottle for our caravan in the raffle and feeling as if we had fallen into an episode of Phoenix Nights, we called it a night.<br />
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Saturday started dry, and we headed out to Dungeness for a walk, grateful that we had curtailed it from four hours to two. We seemed to be trapped in that old fable, the battle between the wind and the sun. Who would get us to take our coats off first as we struggled through the designated desert? An otherworld of pebble banks and lost industrial machinery. The white cliffs of Dover in the distance, barely white, pebble dashed and Dalmatian spot marked under huge skies. We trudged on, fascinated by the post apocalyptic feel of this frontier land, past scattered wooden shacks that were erected after the war, as farmers sold off land to working class Londoners, and they set up holiday homes next to the power station and the lighthouse. It's now a habitat of artists and writers. We stopped at Derek Jarman's Prospect cottage and read the John Donne poem, The Sun Rising, engraved on the side of his house:<br />
Busy old fool, unruly Sun,<br />
Why dost thou thus,<br />
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us ?<br />
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The sun was calling us onwards, staggering through the shale, grateful for a coffee stop and a trudge back along the tiny railway line. It was a bleak and beautiful landscape next to the dancing sea.<br />
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A windswept picnic lunch next to the yacht club in New Romney followed. It was possibly the least salubrious yacht club any of us had seen, but try telling that to the lady preparing the burgers for their annual shindig, who was less than pleased with our company. Stoic, we watched as Mark battled to kit together some very flimsy looking land yachts, and we took it in turns to try them out as the tide receded, the beach grew and the rain started. They worked. Decamping to the other side of the causeway, we got the hang of it soon enough. Rita so much, that after giving her a gentle encouraging shove, I looked up to see her half way to France, a speck disappearing into the distance.. The band struck up behind in the club house, and we boogied on the beach between flying by the seat of our pants along the sand.<br />
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Saturday night, a walk to the local pub, The Slaughtered lamb (kidding), more pie, more chips, and we moved the pool table out to play, it was a tight game, not only because we nearly put out the eye of the tattooed customer at the bar, with his well-groomed shitsu by his feet. He swept her up, less we trampled her.<br />
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There was a storm in the night, as the rain lashed the caravan, the wind won out against the sun and we hunkered down, fearing we wouldn't be in Kansas in the morning. The weather has never stopped play for She Who Dares, so we walked along the seafront at Dymchurch, soaked to our undies, wondering how the houses still managed to look so lovely, and still sell, right next the sea wall. With rising waters, there's a fragility to that landscape. Some of us packed up and headed home, while those that remained had the water park cancelled on them and visited a nearby RSPB reserve instead. We always find something of interest.<br />
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Another successful weekender, watch out North Wales, next year we're coming for you!<br />
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Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-86959284107958632512019-09-12T10:09:00.001+01:002019-09-12T10:16:08.029+01:00Seasonal updates<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHVrN_W1iQBwho_SnfQmyiki4KjnQoC1aAMJhoLUq0KIcLh8mB_kxJJNRORUkE6yZ5cDdHROwT3peIhpZ61hCfCwgL3JIHiSSRiGOUomnzYYFVwVSyfNy1c3k71cg9iFND_DQWhBcIvfsw/s1600/swim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHVrN_W1iQBwho_SnfQmyiki4KjnQoC1aAMJhoLUq0KIcLh8mB_kxJJNRORUkE6yZ5cDdHROwT3peIhpZ61hCfCwgL3JIHiSSRiGOUomnzYYFVwVSyfNy1c3k71cg9iFND_DQWhBcIvfsw/s400/swim.jpg" width="400" height="400" data-original-width="960" data-original-height="960" /></a></div><br />
Funny time of year. For an ex-teacher I'm surrounded by the 'back to school vibe.' The children have disappeared at work, offspring are back to Uni, the morning air retains a night chill. It's a time for new beginnings, more so than the new year I think. I've decided to get back into open water, literally and creatively, dipping into the North Sea on a sunny, Autumn afternoon, taking my swimsuit when walking along the Cam and sending out stories to magazines and competitions. Mslexia entry done, The Moth, Fiction Desk and Caledonia Novel - that's my submission budget gone for the year. Edits finished on the novel and sent for final report. <br />
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Going for a paddle while I plan something new - coming up in October - I've curated a short story evening, showcasing local talent - stories, poems and music on October 22nd - 7pm, The Half Moon, Bishop's Stortford.<br />
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Happy early New Year all!<br />
Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-88401065474881165752019-07-18T14:29:00.001+01:002019-07-18T14:29:54.253+01:00Mslexicon! We're all in this together<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW73b-I8kDkylJh_o0huCEWOnrtAq-T1kVf9qRMHsTUN4OM_hOh21mWX0BuB5h-sxcHS-oU2Jr-_OgAYUflQ1jFpmlyt0EWLD39yOer3BWnhH5LwnyUWkeqrTZLYd9aNneMPj4Ggul9Cfi/s1600/landscape_mslexicon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW73b-I8kDkylJh_o0huCEWOnrtAq-T1kVf9qRMHsTUN4OM_hOh21mWX0BuB5h-sxcHS-oU2Jr-_OgAYUflQ1jFpmlyt0EWLD39yOer3BWnhH5LwnyUWkeqrTZLYd9aNneMPj4Ggul9Cfi/s400/landscape_mslexicon.jpg" width="400" height="204" data-original-width="1088" data-original-height="554" /></a></div>I've been a subscriber to Mslexia for many years, so when they announced they were staging their first convention/conference/festival, I was first in line. Billed as a Women Writer's Weekend, the perfect alliteration, the inaugural event was held in the leafy surrounds of Devonshire College, University of Leeds. I wasn't going to pass up the chance to pretend to be a student again (en-suites for student rooms, who knew? And a double bed? In my day, our rooms were based on the design of a Swedish prison!) and to mix with the great and good of the writing world.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSmQow_5NgNVRRQapVsjaPJusgxFS6l6bueCR7h-iidg8NHXBsbNk54yzNiBlU7BZl-JEgMNolwg-NCBscFWx9eofmT0pbxJv_42ro_s7lre5fRFv5L04aXSIqzSn5W0JIVr7Bfl8_da73/s1600/1431633867_found.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSmQow_5NgNVRRQapVsjaPJusgxFS6l6bueCR7h-iidg8NHXBsbNk54yzNiBlU7BZl-JEgMNolwg-NCBscFWx9eofmT0pbxJv_42ro_s7lre5fRFv5L04aXSIqzSn5W0JIVr7Bfl8_da73/s320/1431633867_found.jpg" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="426" data-original-height="284" /></a></div>It was a packed itinerary, hard to choose from the tempting list of workshops, talks and performances, harder still when it's months prior and you're perusing the list. Resilient thinking or procrastination? I couldn't decide. Revealing and concealing or memoir and fiction? Performance skills or book addictions? All were delivered by approachable experts, women writer's with a wealth of experience. After realizing I had safely chosen within my comfort zone, I mavericked out and swapped from a short story workshop to monologue. I was discovered and volunteered my eviction, but the tremendous Margaret Wilkinson let me stay. I'm glad she did. Monologue is a new one for me, a friend is considering re-starting her story club as a series of monologues, I'm trying to persuade her it would be a good idea to deliver them from an ice cream van and take it on tour. Margaret took us through the importance of voice, and I tried writing in second person for the first time. Interesting and exhausting, feel it would suit flash and the short story form, but an entire novel?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix3LoH8UYKDnBPE6oyWbHtmFv5dxy-ekWiq5nPNHOxbpPiEqmDvnw60qEmoO7BvIx4leW8-HO_OQeDmIpg7VzNeJlHSMR4i1IC-bwN6yxdew_yTF0HtnBupxIdQUNBej4q5ghTwn0DnHkg/s1600/IceCreamVan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix3LoH8UYKDnBPE6oyWbHtmFv5dxy-ekWiq5nPNHOxbpPiEqmDvnw60qEmoO7BvIx4leW8-HO_OQeDmIpg7VzNeJlHSMR4i1IC-bwN6yxdew_yTF0HtnBupxIdQUNBej4q5ghTwn0DnHkg/s320/IceCreamVan.jpg" width="320" height="194" data-original-width="1148" data-original-height="696" /></a></div>I had the opportunity to speak to agents, found myself sitting exactly in the same place opposite Jo Unwin as I was two weeks ago with The Literary Consultancy. Fortunately, she told me she rarely remembers faces, so perhaps was convinced that I was not stalking her. We were delighted and entertained by the Scottish Makar, Jackie Kay (I was new to her writing, how come I've existed so long without any exposure to this funny, verbal jazz?)<br />
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The novel feedback from agents was useful - The writing's great - but you need to change the start. Back to editing then. I now know what it is - Commercial fictional memoir!<br />
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Apart from the pedagogy, these occasions are invaluable for meeting other writer's, other women at all stages of their journey, making contacts and friends from all over the country, indeed, all over the world. Just like being a student again, except the first question wasn't where are you from and what A levels did you do? But what do you write and where's the bar? <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6XO3MlAIRye3VFZuz_fJ99pBWLDOzwgtF_rF1ZQU48xXwlZJhdzllNnmcVmiC4UJbp6as8oMp8qFGgqzFUzIPb4zImyRGSPS8bX_Q2DFTVdIznSQcZ4CLhsQH-31ea2jcRIIrSyT7RGmY/s1600/Cheers-group-1030x773.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6XO3MlAIRye3VFZuz_fJ99pBWLDOzwgtF_rF1ZQU48xXwlZJhdzllNnmcVmiC4UJbp6as8oMp8qFGgqzFUzIPb4zImyRGSPS8bX_Q2DFTVdIznSQcZ4CLhsQH-31ea2jcRIIrSyT7RGmY/s320/Cheers-group-1030x773.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1030" data-original-height="773" /></a></div>Here's to next year Mslexia - I'll be there!Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-74859367883153980642019-06-25T12:53:00.002+01:002019-06-25T12:53:59.828+01:00Invest in the value of their creativityI nicked the title for this blog from Aki Shiltz, inspirational director of The Literary Consultancy, who have been helping writers invest in their creativity for the last twenty or so years.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Vtxthbp0h21dB0hG7v3XMCj2IDbJaf79SjZfCGkgbWIexNTmzRu5Q96YVa04pj9Um7ZYVR3KIfmFlKemCfXu8FV2ues47vDQtII64E30dJXCb9uppZQujG0MUlx1L7ognGjxB591eiyC/s1600/TLC-logo-WEB_vertical_TEAL_pad25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Vtxthbp0h21dB0hG7v3XMCj2IDbJaf79SjZfCGkgbWIexNTmzRu5Q96YVa04pj9Um7ZYVR3KIfmFlKemCfXu8FV2ues47vDQtII64E30dJXCb9uppZQujG0MUlx1L7ognGjxB591eiyC/s320/TLC-logo-WEB_vertical_TEAL_pad25.jpg" width="320" height="295" data-original-width="1250" data-original-height="1154" /></a></div>Saturday was their annual Writer's Day at the free Word Centre, Farringdon. A suitable creative space, words plastered with pink slogans and a furry pink bed in the corner, adorned with satin sheets. Nice of them to provide something for my afternoon nap. It wasn't needed. Inspiring talks, personal pitches and publishing strategies kept us all fired up and awake throughout.. From Rowan Hisayo Buchanan and her delightfully illustrated talk, Snapshots of a Debut Novel, to the marketing genius and twitter queen that is Sam Missingham - Sell Your Story, Not Your Soul, ('Not a literary person at all, not even posh!') with her valuable advice - 'Have an elevator pitch ready, authors are naturally humble, sell yourself, fake it if you have to and when you have the opportunity.' This was a day to inspire and celebrate how seriously writer's take their craft.<br />
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Robert Scragg, a former TLC mentee, read from his new novel, What falls Beneath the Cracks, live pitches came from new, nervous, yet accomplished writers for the Pen Factor competition and the day was rounded with a workshop from the prolific Leone Ross (I'd went to one of her Word factory short story workshops last year - brilliant) who reminded us that a short story needs shape and a dual energy, two characters sharing a highly charged space.<br />
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Suitably inspired I went home and sent off a short story to The Moth competition, pitched Absent Year in 100 words to Fairlight Books on a Mslexia forum, planned a short story evening in my local town and sort of gatecrashed John Tarrow's The Time's photoshoot at the incredible Talliston house. Onwards, upwards, or at least, sideways. That's NOT all folks!Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-77990033924053035172019-05-10T18:12:00.001+01:002019-05-10T18:12:27.741+01:00Book Launch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3nn6ToNA-mXKI2QbSjGEo72JE9WQidK4UZB-YGCNcV1sznDFnm9smoRYHTSvd0p7S3nF5Zq5OyyXa-YRWZrvgZrS-0Adc7Aci5L4QmLwHmG0YERHxJfQSzyPuo7ph2_l4f_sPAWPWY5uW/s1600/strangers+guide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3nn6ToNA-mXKI2QbSjGEo72JE9WQidK4UZB-YGCNcV1sznDFnm9smoRYHTSvd0p7S3nF5Zq5OyyXa-YRWZrvgZrS-0Adc7Aci5L4QmLwHmG0YERHxJfQSzyPuo7ph2_l4f_sPAWPWY5uW/s320/strangers+guide.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="240" data-original-height="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Tv6lt_6WuHF2_aJC8hlnJ-grnna3EweWqv6GtuoQxX9nwpEAZF6jMCXj5IptBP167MrfTHBqgnsyVte6VEkxg_gi3i2-Xb5n-abolRdP1tiKhyRjZ9Xq_6vD2n7WqMZLMTt26MCDqnWs/s1600/IMG_1113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Tv6lt_6WuHF2_aJC8hlnJ-grnna3EweWqv6GtuoQxX9nwpEAZF6jMCXj5IptBP167MrfTHBqgnsyVte6VEkxg_gi3i2-Xb5n-abolRdP1tiKhyRjZ9Xq_6vD2n7WqMZLMTt26MCDqnWs/s320/IMG_1113.JPG" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="240" data-original-height="320" /></a></div><br />
I've been to two very different book launches in the last two weeks. Common People, at Southbank, London, and The Stranger's Guide to Talliston, at The Star, Great Dunmow.<br />
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I like going to book launches. I know how important they are, how terrifying and exhilarating it is to be launching your creation out into the wider world. I know the thrill of seeing your name on a bookshelf in a bookstore, inspiring cartwheels down the central isle of Waterstones. (The cartwheels were in my head, I haven't cartwheeled since I was ten, but the name on the book was real).<br />
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Both book launches were very special. Common People is an anthology of writing, essays and memoir on what it means to be working class in Britain today, by working class writers. Providing an opportunity to be heard in a publishing market that largely closes it's doors to those from other backgrounds. To writers who otherwise do not see their lives represented in print. Kate Massey, one of the writer's, said, 'To see my life in books would have made me value my own experience and given me a sense of confidence.' <br />
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There is a lack of opportunity that needs to be challenged by activism. In the words of Tony Walsh, poet, who spoke at the event,<br />
'We are coming.'<br />
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The common thread between the two books is the publishing platform of Unbound, which brings a certain democracy to the publishing process. Authors submit work, as they would to an agent or publisher, if deemed possible, Unbound helps support a crowdfunding campaign to bring the book to publication. Readers can pledge from £20 upwards, and get to see their name in the list of supporters at the end of the book. <br />
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The Stranger's Guide to Talliston is a very different book (yet it's author is also from a working class background). A Young Adult novel - abandoned and alone, thirteen year old Joe's world is shattered when he enters a deserted council house and becomes trapped within a labyrinth protecting the last magical places on earth. The genre could be fantasy, but Talliston is real, a remarkable place, a house transformed with love and passion into Bitain's Most Extraordinary Home. I'm proud to have been the Writer in Residence there last year, and to have stayed within it's walls. Now it has another layer of life in this book. <br />
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So If you haven't heard of Unbound, look them up, you could be part of something very special.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfH7-q-yy_x1ct78hv6l-yQadv-_qUIrQItfcecwtg6rSgj_TVvktLmPJ0bdjbjSwEzbdXZApratOTjtVDIqQTBBDvapP8pJH2JI2p6x8289gKHaHgQlJyYmd15T2OPt8N2-vOgBxV4BeL/s1600/apple-touch-icon-288103681ba9b28fc76a586d0e32b723e6fd1c7df287859b4a768b564917d166.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfH7-q-yy_x1ct78hv6l-yQadv-_qUIrQItfcecwtg6rSgj_TVvktLmPJ0bdjbjSwEzbdXZApratOTjtVDIqQTBBDvapP8pJH2JI2p6x8289gKHaHgQlJyYmd15T2OPt8N2-vOgBxV4BeL/s320/apple-touch-icon-288103681ba9b28fc76a586d0e32b723e6fd1c7df287859b4a768b564917d166.png" width="320" height="320" data-original-width="512" data-original-height="512" /></a></div>Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-41068917183055204612019-04-12T10:04:00.000+01:002019-04-12T10:04:08.391+01:00Jacqueline Wilson - Phillipa Pearce Lecture 2019 - Be Careful What You Wish For<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIgdmuWVTcJFtqIpRyeWg3X4CJu9jlZJ-1dZxnuGusb05WvO_YVXVRIuhkVtVb0nG6P-tKZS0PeEgaXnTTn7wSWPycT23zN_gYKPIlpOl6swhEukV75QCHZtLh68LfEz2yPb2uyhdHHD0a/s1600/31nVVdLSoaL._UX250_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIgdmuWVTcJFtqIpRyeWg3X4CJu9jlZJ-1dZxnuGusb05WvO_YVXVRIuhkVtVb0nG6P-tKZS0PeEgaXnTTn7wSWPycT23zN_gYKPIlpOl6swhEukV75QCHZtLh68LfEz2yPb2uyhdHHD0a/s320/31nVVdLSoaL._UX250_.jpg" width="222" height="320" data-original-width="251" data-original-height="361" /></a></div>The Phillipa Pearce Lectures are an annual pleasure. Set in the hallowed grounds of Homerton College, always on a gloriously sunny day (I've never been to one where the sun didn't shine) they are a contemplative pause in the hurly burly of life, a reflection on why we write, read and curate books for children.<br />
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The twelfth lecture did not disappoint. Jacqueline Wilson is the Stephen King of Children's writing, as prolific in her output (not as gruesome), unafraid to tackle difficult issues from a child's point of view, beloved by readers for decades, and by writers too. She steps up to the podium, a petite figure in black with a voice that could have dripped straight out of the radio from another era, 'Listen with Mother.' Gentle, but fearless, she read her lecture notes as if they were a novel, captivating her audience. <br />
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Jacqueline described how she had once met Phillipa Pearce,<br />
“She seemed fascinated by me, and when I asked what she had written, said it 'was some book about a garden.' I hadn't realised who she was.” Jaqueline was twelve when Tom's Midnight Garden was published, an age at which she had just received her first adult library ticket and thought she was too old and sophisticated for children's books. But she read them to her own children and was spellbound by Phillipa's story. "A child reader lives the story" she says, "The characters are as real as their own friends or siblings... They like to know who's who and what's going on straight away." She describes her own experience as a child reader. Staying at her grandparents, the only things they had to read was the encyclopaedia. The first section was taken up with descriptions and illustrations of fish, the young Jacqueline had a particular phobia about fish, so she would not read it, and found a copy of an old novel, Maria Edgeworth's Stories For Children, in which she read, The Purple Jar. Like a fairy tale, with the theme of Be Careful What You Wish For, with a helpless child protagonist, the story infuriated her, yet she wanted to read it again and again. <br />
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She was asked recently to write in the style of a classic Children's novel, and chose E.Nesbit, writing Four children and It. She made one of the children wish to be a writer and enjoy their fifteen minutes of fame in book signings and Television appearances. The story is being developed into a feature film, with the CGI Psammead voiced by Michael Caine.<br />
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Returning to Phillipa Pearce, after a short diversion through the dark and cautionary tales in the original PL Travers Mary Poppins books, Jaqueline talked about A Dog So Small, Phillipa Pearce’s take on the be careful what you wish for theme. The book is simple enough, a boy wants a dog, imagines a dog, and gets a dog. The reader is on the side of this imaginative child, but we feel that something will go wrong. The boy sees the dog only when he shuts his eyes, putting himself at peril, and is knocked down by London traffic. When he recovers, and his parents get him a real dog, it is not what he wants. Pearce shows us the joys, but also the dangers of living in the imagination. Her understanding of sensitive children is incredible.<br />
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The audience has been lulled into calm contemplation by Jacqueline's lecture. No forest of hands shoots up to ask questions, as there would be at a school visit. Still, the questions come, as thoughtful as the lecture,<br />
'How do you manage to stay in touch with what children want these days?'<br />
'I cheat a bit now. I hear from children via email and questions in the Jacqueline Wilson magazine. I still feel in touch with young children, but I find it difficult to keep up when they reach secondary school age. I don't want to be the literary equivalent of dad dancing, so most of my teenage characters are historical, Victorian or from the 1920's, although I'm just beginning a book for contemporary teens.' <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilfzMnQ2W_vzU8L-mhZ56rP5P6ryVt937nGERnIYeKvO-XWPHMQje2iiCrfRpklbv3B12ePRIwVuF595mMywZAD90MjMMtzY1LfOkDhqmcE7LUw1Z465gEUHtTM-H2Y6o2djm82q9nXWwZ/s1600/Jacky-Writing.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilfzMnQ2W_vzU8L-mhZ56rP5P6ryVt937nGERnIYeKvO-XWPHMQje2iiCrfRpklbv3B12ePRIwVuF595mMywZAD90MjMMtzY1LfOkDhqmcE7LUw1Z465gEUHtTM-H2Y6o2djm82q9nXWwZ/s320/Jacky-Writing.png" width="320" height="293" data-original-width="736" data-original-height="675" /></a></div>Someone asks about Nick Sharratt, her long time illustrator and collaborator, Jacqueline reveals he helps as copy editor too. 'It's a joy to have an illustrator who gets into my mind.' they are an effective double act and Nick is spot on about what her characters look like.<br />
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Jacqueline Wilson has become the modern children's classics writer. Her books will stand the test of time, writing inclusively, wanting children to understand her characters, even if it is not their experience, she still believes basically all children respond to the same things.<br />
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And what did she wish for? To be a writer of course. As a child she would walk to school and imagine herself a writer giving talks about her work, now the happiest bit of the world of her imagination and reality have locked together.<br />
Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-53696176079451171212019-01-25T16:55:00.000+00:002019-01-25T16:55:15.322+00:00Dithering<br />
I went to Miami and I bought a little yellow pocket diary with Peanuts on the front. It says , 'When you're an inspiration you never know what you're going to inspire.' I used to cut the Peanuts strips out of the newspaper and blu tac them on the back of my bedroom door.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgAdiKocYZdBc9pNE98xIywwyc0-hgZI3WHXxByPKVdTagSXzeK8UxrbSJE0SWb-NUWiS34EmYAAg3O3EVIpCzQWFKhSaOdmgev0b0yQ_r15ZIcxIgLZKoU0cdRFW6OVNDKtLqZIzesFe5/s1600/moleskine-2019-12m-limited-edition-peanuts-weekly-notebook-pocket-yellow-hard-cover-35-x-55-moleskine-8058341716151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgAdiKocYZdBc9pNE98xIywwyc0-hgZI3WHXxByPKVdTagSXzeK8UxrbSJE0SWb-NUWiS34EmYAAg3O3EVIpCzQWFKhSaOdmgev0b0yQ_r15ZIcxIgLZKoU0cdRFW6OVNDKtLqZIzesFe5/s320/moleskine-2019-12m-limited-edition-peanuts-weekly-notebook-pocket-yellow-hard-cover-35-x-55-moleskine-8058341716151.jpg" width="187" height="320" data-original-width="573" data-original-height="980" /></a></div>I'm not short of inspiration and Miami was full of it. It's just making something of it that's the problem.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxL7PcAKgOi56HJBxr3bFXaK7i0JW5r5YMutWG_1GpfLAorKwWfwg6SIDo3MGuIZ2s8-Qsqt-jpt5SlnmdDsGLNRrBPXLpjIRspTNppGJ7VLu_8Fi8__tutsgED_jCIqNPwFwxFJsL35n5/s1600/49697057_10157176053872189_1431578673533681664_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxL7PcAKgOi56HJBxr3bFXaK7i0JW5r5YMutWG_1GpfLAorKwWfwg6SIDo3MGuIZ2s8-Qsqt-jpt5SlnmdDsGLNRrBPXLpjIRspTNppGJ7VLu_8Fi8__tutsgED_jCIqNPwFwxFJsL35n5/s320/49697057_10157176053872189_1431578673533681664_n.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="960" data-original-height="720" /></a></div>I've been writing some time now, with little snippets of success, and I should be happy with what I've achieved, but publication, proper book publication eludes me. Maybe that's not what it's about, but I need to decide what to do next, and I'm dithering. I want to put all my energies into finishing my novel, telling the story (sort of) of my nan's ordinary life in Manchester, but there's the writing for children. Three novels, two YA, one MG, all close to my heart. I could afford to self publish one of them, but which one? Then I would have a proper book and I could go into schools and talk about how to be a writer. Couldn't I? There's the flash of inspiration which leads to short stories, competition entries, magazine submissions, a toe in the literary water. There's some pay for ghost writing memoirs and an article in the local paper. I see my name and occupation in print. Writer. What next? I'm going to toss a coin.<br />
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Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-6394388823664376152018-11-19T14:38:00.001+00:002018-11-19T14:38:47.040+00:00Writer's Retreat - Garsdale<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPb1YF46TnW2vni2DNPGCeOUNdTQSS93YptW-GqjVGbyJndk3UUsBybX2QJAvq_WBb0TeXWHlhj9YMhez0uOi3JXB2aXLD0Pm2y4BqeBg9vBq51MSuMf6vOJI_qgiHpNUHYMmtid-Nr_VF/s1600/IMG_0128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPb1YF46TnW2vni2DNPGCeOUNdTQSS93YptW-GqjVGbyJndk3UUsBybX2QJAvq_WBb0TeXWHlhj9YMhez0uOi3JXB2aXLD0Pm2y4BqeBg9vBq51MSuMf6vOJI_qgiHpNUHYMmtid-Nr_VF/s400/IMG_0128.jpg" width="400" height="300" data-original-width="320" data-original-height="240" /></a></div>I haven't been on a retreat before. I don't know what to expect. I'm a retreat virgin. A "writer's" retreat too. My inverted commas. I still feel a bit of a phony calling myself a writer, even 'though I earned something from the job this year. A little, not a lot. Still, the retreat is offering a valuable space, the chance to escape and indulge my writing time. I need it. I need the time that at home is shared with four other jobs, domestic work and the company I can't refuse. It's an indulgence saved for and gifted. As I set off on the long train journey North, suitcase stuffed with notebooks and drafts, I have to persuade myself its worth it. It is.<br />
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Garsdale is a quiet place. Another world, of open moors, glittering streams and the pelt of amber hills. The retreat was established in 2017 by Hamish Wilson, a poet, playwright and ex-teacher, and his partner, Rebecca Nouchette, a cellist, ceramicist and excellent cook. The house smells of new carpet and paint, it grows dark as the others arrive. My small room is called Byron. I move my desk from under his poem to the window, in anticipation of an inspiring view come morning. <br />
I'm not disappointed. From the dining room we spot flying trains at night, suspended on the Settle-Carlisle line above the bank, and experience the first of many delicious meals Rebecca serves. The suspension of domestic duty, where a day is structured only by food and drink, means I plough on, over 10,000 words, a short story and a poem. A poem? I don't write poetry, but such is the influence of the place. The coach house has been transformed into a workshop with shelves full of poetry books and a grand piano. I borrow Lemn Simsay, Blake, and note the words of Willy Russell in the guest book "I hate poets!" He's joking. I think.<br />
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The days form a pattern around food. After breakfast I walk. We all ‘get out’ at least once a day, just at different times, some take a post prandial lunchtime stroll, but I prefer the morning, get the blood going. Later, those with cars venture to the Wensleydale Creamery, Hawes and the bookshops of Sedburgh. I vow to return with transport next time and explore further afield, shank’s pony only gets me so far, but at least it keeps me writing. I don’t mind the solitude on the lonely road, it's head space and thinking time. On the second day I venture out along the Pennine bridal way, trudging toward the Moorcock Inn, its open, so I stop for coffee and another 'retreatist'comes through the door. We chat and walk back together as a train thunders over the viaduct, twenty carriages long of sawn logs that tinge the air with their pine aroma. It prompts a spark, I’m writing a scene in a forest in Canada.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlykbj-K9pz4qO3YnA7hUl8Cc_xtJzC4uMd4TmcbT-xZIpyF-WGnMU_5Ca_bZ_ZXnBTmIjd36Qm80aGxVuGejlpXTdpicB1CMO6kMqAoEvQa2cOOTax9KLljqTHxgd2D2smlvR0K7xiBz/s1600/IMG_0129.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlykbj-K9pz4qO3YnA7hUl8Cc_xtJzC4uMd4TmcbT-xZIpyF-WGnMU_5Ca_bZ_ZXnBTmIjd36Qm80aGxVuGejlpXTdpicB1CMO6kMqAoEvQa2cOOTax9KLljqTHxgd2D2smlvR0K7xiBz/s320/IMG_0129.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="320" data-original-height="240" /></a></div>It's interesting to meet other people who are writing and discuss what they are working on; Short stories, a novel, biography, poetry and more poetry. The place attracts poets. I look up the collective noun on the internet (we're allowed wi-fi, unlike other writer's retreats) and find:<br />
<br />
<br />
a stanza of poets <br />
a seethe <br />
a declamation of poets <br />
a poetica of poets <br />
a muse of poets <br />
a ponder of poets <br />
a paranoid of poets <br />
a prose of poets <br />
a migraine of poets <br />
an annoyance of poets <br />
an argument of poets <br />
a clowder of poets <br />
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Clowder seems to fit the Yorkshire/Cumbria landscape. We'll go with that, and after a week in their company, here's my effort:<br />
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<br />
I don't write poetry<br />
Can't<br />
But this place<br />
With its wild skies and pelted hills<br />
Is tickling the lines out <br />
of me<br />
Streams flicker, fissure possible words<br />
Cloaked clouds hover on moonside shadows<br />
There might be a poem in me yet...<br />
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<br />
I don't get to perform it. My pre-booked ticket means I leave Friday before the evening cello recital and sharing of work. I'll be sure to read the small print and stay 'till Saturday next time, and there will be a next time.<br />
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https://thegarsdaleretreat.co.uk/<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfTb0oxEzwbURGozw1yXWw356vKWzBz3FTbUmL4HK2M30uc7IHVk18zPKpLQc7e1pPtbwK0IU9ZJEQ9LJjy3lENzn67EIhqCwjwRNrP7OSyfJhVNUwaOetwCSm4tqqMCUuDSeCXokU3VPR/s1600/IMG_0096.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfTb0oxEzwbURGozw1yXWw356vKWzBz3FTbUmL4HK2M30uc7IHVk18zPKpLQc7e1pPtbwK0IU9ZJEQ9LJjy3lENzn67EIhqCwjwRNrP7OSyfJhVNUwaOetwCSm4tqqMCUuDSeCXokU3VPR/s320/IMG_0096.JPG" width="320" height="320" data-original-width="320" data-original-height="320" /></a></div>Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-57582655268191445802018-10-30T09:51:00.000+00:002018-10-30T09:51:47.469+00:00Literary Consultancy - Writer's Day<br />
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Saturday Farringdon. Everywhere the plant of brick on brick, where screaming cutting machines scythe through the clank of construction. We are all builders here, a collection of mentees constructing our stories with the help of The Literary Consultancy. Ensconced in The Free Word Centre, we met, swapped experiences and heard from industry professionals, with the spectre of a 'Pitch' hovering over the day.<br />
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Despite years of pitching stories to screenplay audiences, agents at SCBWI parties and one to one's in the back room of a pub, it's still a terrifying process. I'd practiced my three minutes worth at home. Intro, pitch and reading. My husband batted it back to me, 'It's not Rocky, where are the questions? What happens?' He's right, it's not Rocky. How do you pitch a quiet novel that doesn't have that high concept tag line?<br />
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The lovely, nurturing Aki Shiltz, (Director of TLC) introduced herself and her colleague, Joe Sedgewick.The Literary Consultancy has been running since 1996 when the publishing landscape changed. Net books appeared, publishing houses merged, supermarkets became book buyers and the market became a driving decision in publication, (cue quiet collective groan from assembled writer's - Don't we know it? How many times have I been so close with full MS requests, only to be told, 'I'm not sure how we would sell it?' It's hard writing to market trends too, given the length of time it takes to publish a book, agents are not following the market, but are influenced by it. Self-publishing might be different, more immediate?)in many publishing houses, the head of every department had to agree before the book could be launched.<br />
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TLC was formed as a response to increasingly difficult times, giving writer's a paid feedback service to get their manuscript in the best possible condition before it totters out into the world. They have arts council funding until 2022, which awards five mentorships a year. I count myself as very, very fortunate to be benefiting from one of those.<br />
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Meeting other writer's is one of the most important outcomes of a day like this. We spent some time introducing ourselves and reflecting on our lives and writing journeys, and our experience of the mentorship programme. I've been lucky, in that I'm matched with a mentor who gets the drive of my story, (Kerry Hudson) and is persistent in gently reminding me, that as a semi-fictional biography, it must move from an episodic life to have the structure of a novel. I'm trying to react and respond with this in mind, while also trying to finish the damn thing. I'm getting there.<br />
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Agent, Chris Wellbelove from Aitkin Alexander joined us for coffee and to explain his role.(He represent Booker shortlisted Daisy Johnson, who used to work where I work, Audley End, perhaps I have sat in her lucky room stewards chair). It's not that I haven't heard Chris' advice before, but a refresher doesn't harm. Aitkin Alexander have three agents and eighteen support staff, between them they receive 500 submissions a week. Don't panic, most of those are pants, be prepared, make a considered and personal submission, and you will be heard! <br />
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Tailor your approach, research agents who have published similar work, keep track of who you have submitted to, finish the book before submitting fiction, do a synopsis (rarely read, but used to confirm genre)and, when you send that covering email; Three paragraphs:<br />
1) Intro - who you are and why you're sending work to that agent<br />
2) About the book (here's your pitch/tag line/teaser)<br />
3) Short bio - writing credentials<br />
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<br />
We took a break for lunch and bonded over pizza at East Street market, before heading back to meet Kish Wadyaratna of Picador publishing, to hear from her perspective. Picador is a literary imprint of Pan Macmillan with eight commissioning editors, taking submissions via agents only. They are involved with the whole book production process from editorial through project management, admin, packaging, blurb and cover design. Most of the books submitted that get to their Monday editorial meeting, get an offer.<br />
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Then, the chest clenching, heart wrenching, palm sweating readings. My words feel like someone else's - I try to do too much with my pitch and don't make it clear, but the reading goes down well. There's polite applause and kind feedback, it's a safe space to pitch, much appreciated, and the information from the Writer's Day reveals where my book might 'sit' within the market.<br />
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<br />
Uplit, a charming, relationship based, hopeful story. So, with that in mind, this is the new pitch, what do you think?<br />
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This is a semi-fictional biography of the life of Muriel Burns. Living a quotidian life in working class Manchester in a family where madness seeps like sherry through a trifle sponge, her life is contained by historical events. Can she rise above catastrophe before it takes her sanity? It's as story with heart, full of family love and dysfunction where Muriel's unreliable mental health haunts her life and those closest to her.<br />
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Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-68699401701463818812018-08-23T17:06:00.000+01:002018-08-23T17:07:11.775+01:00If a book is well written, I always find it too short<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGWCGyHcCb03kd5uJzcL2tJopcdvM4gDOv2usLVw98G3LGvGaBfkOC8C4YvByURaIjTRTt_h9gXn6mT0hEJL4YvJ-s3zBwrVKjpVZjSrpNK8c8hfp0keKpEdKg_H3AtqVt8mJBMdNQ-fG/s1600/flood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGWCGyHcCb03kd5uJzcL2tJopcdvM4gDOv2usLVw98G3LGvGaBfkOC8C4YvByURaIjTRTt_h9gXn6mT0hEJL4YvJ-s3zBwrVKjpVZjSrpNK8c8hfp0keKpEdKg_H3AtqVt8mJBMdNQ-fG/s320/flood.jpg" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="800" /></a></div>And the rain comes, and the dry, parched earth is too dry and too parched to drink it. It floods.<br />
Such is work, overflowing with ideas and half finished projects, there's the Middle Grade novel I need to see swimming out in a sea of agents, but I have to write the synopsis first. This is taking me as long as it took to write the book. There's the ghost written memoir for a client, which is too short by 15,000 words. I can't make up the rest of her life, can I? Her memory is frazzled by a brain injury and I have gently helped to glue the pieces together, but there are still gaps. It's too short. Quality, not quantity I suppose. Then there's my own wip, a manuscript that has burst from the confines of my carefully planned plot and is leaking over 30,000 words without the first huge conflict, yet. It might be too long when it's finished, but I won't know until I finish it. Heartened reading the memoir of Glen David Gold whose first novel was 70,000 pages long. Now that is too long. <br />
Back to it then, stretch and cut, craft and weave, that's the job.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQTSJjan4HavvRoU0PvA4UOOUrZnapV_KKprDvRwI61oy2rWthJxElLDx2n833Gg41GznTiauSRPWXuLMngNVeK3Bm9WB-9hX2kFPZcM8Bq6rsn2idRLRLUtfd7frdw46woAu26ZoXydjo/s1600/if-a-book-is-well-written-i-always-find-it-too-short-quote-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQTSJjan4HavvRoU0PvA4UOOUrZnapV_KKprDvRwI61oy2rWthJxElLDx2n833Gg41GznTiauSRPWXuLMngNVeK3Bm9WB-9hX2kFPZcM8Bq6rsn2idRLRLUtfd7frdw46woAu26ZoXydjo/s400/if-a-book-is-well-written-i-always-find-it-too-short-quote-1.jpg" width="310" height="400" data-original-width="620" data-original-height="800" /></a></div>Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-70800319921389066732018-07-04T17:03:00.000+01:002018-07-04T17:03:54.182+01:00Costa Rica Adventures<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVrTrha67O2a7rlxNYbcvx7Kq0xRuoBUzUBt1pVtOk5zOxU1o3xRzUuNDhYKEvRwsPCw-w0bLvCCEoCC0dNxVXmZ4ou-C-OgiitNslx-Q9hDqQlD1n3FtYmpvGA-bQEIJtUy7-EV_ZmNnj/s1600/desk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVrTrha67O2a7rlxNYbcvx7Kq0xRuoBUzUBt1pVtOk5zOxU1o3xRzUuNDhYKEvRwsPCw-w0bLvCCEoCC0dNxVXmZ4ou-C-OgiitNslx-Q9hDqQlD1n3FtYmpvGA-bQEIJtUy7-EV_ZmNnj/s320/desk.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="900" data-original-height="1200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxcP55tuXF1y3ubq9jLSLg8FzL5auQpsCEAP9R0jXoXrU1x3V7iUr6XUjZmbmPvBKfwjL83DdX4qpZ5cKjJQthudQyEqn3nzfteEFKI0VyNCabPrOwQ8WswhHPn8WG4lJpIGI75a1z7jzD/s1600/IMG_8866.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxcP55tuXF1y3ubq9jLSLg8FzL5auQpsCEAP9R0jXoXrU1x3V7iUr6XUjZmbmPvBKfwjL83DdX4qpZ5cKjJQthudQyEqn3nzfteEFKI0VyNCabPrOwQ8WswhHPn8WG4lJpIGI75a1z7jzD/s320/IMG_8866.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="320" data-original-height="240" /></a></div><br />
Try writing in the tropics, the paper curls and warps, the ink bleeds and pencil smudges, books ripple like the Pacific. Although some short stories travel well (see above). My husband kept asking, 'Had any ideas for stories?' Well yes, but with barely the energy to write them, notes and impressions have to suffice. I do find a writing desk in the jungle, laugh when I realise it's a Singer sewing machine table like my nan had, and which has just appeared in the novel I'm writing about her. Costa Rica was a full on adventure with little down time, the heat and humidity slows me to sloth pace, but the memories are there and will provide rich fodder for writing for some time to come.<br />
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Costa Rica is a riot of colour and lush experience. It's people are polite, tactile, friendly. The world cup is everywhere. We hold on, they do not, I apologize to guides, but am reminded, it's a small country, six million people, they do well at football in comparison. <br />
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We start in San Jose, an unremarkable city really, lacking the colour and vivacity of the rest of the country, with a few splashes of green park and an impressive Theatre, currently cuddled with scaffolding. Two nights is enough to recover from the journey and get ready for the next leg, with a day escape by minibus above the clouds to the nearest volcano. Irazu. Vic Reeves visited Costa Rica and declared it the most beautiful place he had seen, I'm beginning to see his point, and how he came up with the 'Uvavou' slogan in Shooting Stars, sounds like 'Irazu' doesn't it? The precarious roads wind through green, pastoral landscapes that give way to volcanic mountain tops. We walk the crater of Irazu and are rewarded with spectacular views and the inviting turquoise of the crater pool. 'No swim there' our guide warns, 'it's sulphuric.' It looks less inviting then. On to Botanic Gardens crowded with Orchids and hummingbirds, by the end of our two weeks we will have seen over fifty different creatures, not including humans.<br />
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We meet a few other British travellers, one young medical student, who had got a bargain flight, and found she had flown to the wrong San Jose. California. Oh dear. Many Americans, interesting, families and conservationists, all anti-Trump. We learn many political lessons. Until we get to Manuel Antonio on the Pacific Coast, there the American tourist outnumber locals, are loud and less inclined to be Democrat. I worry for the future of development in the resort.<br />
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Costa Rica is ramshackle, energetic and the days start early, everyone is up at five. We start the next leg of our journey to Tortuguero by bus, then transfer our luggage onto low boats across the brown water of the rivers and canals that skirt the Caribbean coast. Deep into primary rainforest. It rains, of course, it's the wet season. Thundering rain that renders our raincoats useless. Next time I'll take an extra poncho, it's impossible to get anything dry. Damp and dishevelled we arrive at Evergreen Lodge, huts on stilts on the riverside, and watch the world go by. Fishermen in long canoes, caimans watching canines from under the jetty. More boat trips and a sloth from a distance, toucans and parakeets skim overhead. We are woken by the sounds of Jurassic Park at 4am the next morning. Luckily someone had told us what to expect, a howler monkey roars on the roof of our hut, his pack respond in distant trees. Everything is damp and tacky, stuck with the cracasses of dead insects. The puddles below our hut have turned into a lake, cicadas maracas along the path and a frog chorus resounds through the night. Blue crabs the size of your fist peek from their waterlogged holes. <br />
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We cross the river by boat to Tortuguero town. The local coast is not how you would expect the Caribbean to be, the sand is black, the sea angry and grey, but it's a perfect nesting place for turtles. We're too early in the season to see any, but am impressed by the beach side school, so popular, there are three teaching shifts a day.<br />
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Two nights later we are back on the boat and bus to Arenal, another Volcano. Costa Rica has about 200 volcanic formations, five of them active, they spread down the spine of the country between the Caribbean and Pacific sides like raised hackles on a dog. Volcano lodge and Springs does what it says on the tin, a lovely landscape around natural hot springs and the sun comes out. The next day we walk up the local volcano- Arenal, half way up at least. A poisonous bright yellow, eyelash snake on the way up eclipses the danger of the tarantula we saw in the rainforest. Tabacon next - a water park made for lazing, landscaped from the hot springs. Welcome beers at the swim up bar (The local brew is good, but there are craft beers aplenty, some made by coffee farms). We cross Arenal lake by boat and then a bumpy ride up rugged roads to Monteverde, cloud forest. Beers in the Treehouse restaurant in Santa Elena - built around an old fig tree. The town is chock full of coffee shops selling local wares, tourist clothes and some local curios. There's a craft brewery too. We like it. Out lodge is a little far out and our room dark, but we get to see light skies the next day in Selvatura on a canopy walk above the trees. Miss the zip wire, we've done the rafting after all.<br />
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While in Monteverde we visit El Trapiche, a great tour with Diego, whose family have had the coffee farm since the late 1940's. They grow sugar beet and bananas on the mountainside too, and a few pineapples, I learn they are a flower. I eat so much of them, I'm blooming myself by the end of two weeks.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdh1TB6qL09fS98QoQ1euGhZm5S3HRSMSiedJPsJ1KZ4kAmYSxm8Mzr13ky5OnEHLd5BqB8iCzexOr50TtEZWlUeWOfkbqalURvU9QPWqOgIt3568igcH4pnF8pHkLrVEIBrZuMTl1Mkl/s1600/IMG_8796.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdh1TB6qL09fS98QoQ1euGhZm5S3HRSMSiedJPsJ1KZ4kAmYSxm8Mzr13ky5OnEHLd5BqB8iCzexOr50TtEZWlUeWOfkbqalURvU9QPWqOgIt3568igcH4pnF8pHkLrVEIBrZuMTl1Mkl/s320/IMG_8796.jpg" width="320" height="300" data-original-width="320" data-original-height="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpelBw3wUnI-9RhTeTdtwHcWSOvB2fAv3USJPVGOcvMOPRBJUjez_ggkBoYlXlEfHUktrPJmLC2i3wO_0Zt6KBxQzWtYh00t39Wv9YTNheBWi332WWVGadmV_B_vIbmy_bAdsTTxauv65O/s1600/IMG_8801.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpelBw3wUnI-9RhTeTdtwHcWSOvB2fAv3USJPVGOcvMOPRBJUjez_ggkBoYlXlEfHUktrPJmLC2i3wO_0Zt6KBxQzWtYh00t39Wv9YTNheBWi332WWVGadmV_B_vIbmy_bAdsTTxauv65O/s320/IMG_8801.JPG" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="320" data-original-height="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6fWmr2Tq8pgI2nIeA3ICUqlhgbZjkYfMW73B5RXb0AxpG02Cnt-zyK4WqnJ7QMkty6cl4NjPq3XQf7Tri5r5WWCLQR24sFRPRqY1MMLtUex4FcSrEnnjWehHnD6JV__2e8UYsIBoTjKS1/s1600/IMG_8806.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6fWmr2Tq8pgI2nIeA3ICUqlhgbZjkYfMW73B5RXb0AxpG02Cnt-zyK4WqnJ7QMkty6cl4NjPq3XQf7Tri5r5WWCLQR24sFRPRqY1MMLtUex4FcSrEnnjWehHnD6JV__2e8UYsIBoTjKS1/s320/IMG_8806.JPG" width="320" height="320" data-original-width="320" data-original-height="320" /></a></div>Finally more buses to Manuel Antonio, the view from our room is breathtaking, the sweep of the Pacific, silver in the afternoon cloud, blue the next morning. Ready for a swim we get the shuttle to the beach and are defeated by the waves, walk back, dripping with sea salt and sweat, rewarded by a sloth hanging lazily over the road, sunbathing. Another walk through a National Park, rich with wildlife, Costa Rica has twenty seven national parks and many more wildlife refuges in a country seventy five miles wide at its narrowest point and only 180 miles long, this is the smallest, but the most developed we have seen. Feels a little like a theme park, but the beach is paradise. The lush hills run down to pale sands and green, opaque ocean. We enjoy a refreshing dip, watched by white faced Capuchin monkeys, waiting for the opportunity to steal any tourist food.<br />
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Our final day and boat trip and dolphin spotting completes the wildlife experience. Pura Vida Costa Rica, you're lovely, we'll be back.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpRXC89XduRE0xSeBY9NGclh7Zs6Lrvc9L3Ulw7IbMwmE_U8iTRSpfCfztNOq5AcApNCVFcqcD8icE7BXje62y6ws7HSZpMHFBIpQOAeeRqSvzMQ44lljtfFHKpgF0Jm34_x-JjSY9qpv3/s1600/Pura_Vida_Costa_Rica_Titel2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpRXC89XduRE0xSeBY9NGclh7Zs6Lrvc9L3Ulw7IbMwmE_U8iTRSpfCfztNOq5AcApNCVFcqcD8icE7BXje62y6ws7HSZpMHFBIpQOAeeRqSvzMQ44lljtfFHKpgF0Jm34_x-JjSY9qpv3/s320/Pura_Vida_Costa_Rica_Titel2.jpg" width="320" height="212" data-original-width="1440" data-original-height="955" /></a></div><br />
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Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-76227813475409941652018-04-20T10:38:00.000+01:002018-04-20T10:38:27.356+01:00Frances Hardinge - Peopling the Dark<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTlpcqUi2dgfJ76PJqvprEOu804IBBtXd05ObAqkTL102kGAhVGnNhPLsx42c_XnTltQFvR_5wiBye2mqfwy_ghQesNCD9YMuiSZr4ku0OPihItSwBFjOSKqXp9A3PZ08Xf14Enhpp7GCk/s1600/light-in-darkness.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTlpcqUi2dgfJ76PJqvprEOu804IBBtXd05ObAqkTL102kGAhVGnNhPLsx42c_XnTltQFvR_5wiBye2mqfwy_ghQesNCD9YMuiSZr4ku0OPihItSwBFjOSKqXp9A3PZ08Xf14Enhpp7GCk/s400/light-in-darkness.png" width="400" height="291" data-original-width="516" data-original-height="376" /></a></div>The Phillipa Pearce Lecture has become an annual 'go to' event for me. I've been inspired and enjoyed the lectures given by Frank Cottrell Boyce, Meg Rosoff, Alan Ahlberg and Chris Riddell. Other incredible children's writers have graced the podium at Homerton College - Michael Rosen, Michael Morpurgo, Phillip Pullman, Malorie Blackman and Kevin Crossley Holland. A powerhouse of talent in the last decade, joined by Frances Hardinge for the tenth anniversary of the lecture series.<br />
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On the hottest day of the year with the sun burning out the long, cold winter, it's appropriate that Frances's subject is about shining light into the darkness. She takes the stage, her face keen under the wide brim of her trademark hat, with the look of a Victorian adventuress about to embark on a perilous journey. <br />
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Frances's characters celebrate the agency of women, inspired by a poster of Emma Peel on her study wall, she determines never to be boring and proves anything but. Her lecture is lyrical and painterly, beginning with the telling of a gentle and intelligent response to an eleven year old reader, who said her step father thought one of Frances Hardinge's books, 'Too scary.'<br />
'Is it?' asked the reader, 'Do you think it's too scary? Should I read it?' It was the first time a child had asked this question, channelling the concern of the adult and Frances tried to give an appropriate answer in fluent adultish, although her desire was to look the other adult in the eye and say, 'No, it's not too scary!'<br />
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Frances vividly recalls the stories she read that scared her when she was young, but they have made her the writer she is today, unafraid to step into the dark. One of theses book was Phillipa Pearce's, The Shadow Cage, "The shadows are deep and hard edged." There is a special terror in things unseen, barely glimpsed, menacing figures that people children's literature and are described by new lexicons of invention. In Jabberwocky we peer through a murky forest of nonsense words, Alice in Wonderland says of the poem,<br />
'Sometimes it makes me think of things, but I don't know what they are.'<br />
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Frances believes that as adults we forget what the darkness is to a child. This makes me recall nights when I was young, awake in a cold sweat staring at the curtains and believing a vampire behind them, the sheet tucked tightly round my neck and a crucifix on the bedside table. Crawling into the dark tucked-in world of my bed, forgetting which way was up, lost in the stifling darkness and shouting for help. I remember how that felt. I also remember being guilty of the impatience of a parent desperate for sleep when my own children saw creatures in the dark, putting the light on, telling them, 'There's nothing there.' The adult knows the darkness is just the absence of light, but children see the monsters of shadow and monsters are resilient to adult explanation. I tried to teach my children to lucid dream, to develop powers and skills so they could battle the creatures of nightmares, much as Conor does in Patrick Ness's 'A Monster Calls.'<br />
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As an author Frances is trying to tell her readers that somebody understands, the reader needs to see their private demons pinned to a page and know their battles are neither meaningless or hopeless. Long may her lyrical tales shine light in the dark.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUpWMApdanHwbm5JiubWvTZkAzE6d8npS9mzVL-B0hmtGwmD52MgneYSv174DGrFwrXvK8ZYD2lQw-GKCm7emTfYhJrA5XAz5r5dGQPv3hd4QIJ1QbdI_j5-D_vIomMuQa3fcWTYK8xCV/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-04-10+at+13.44.59.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUpWMApdanHwbm5JiubWvTZkAzE6d8npS9mzVL-B0hmtGwmD52MgneYSv174DGrFwrXvK8ZYD2lQw-GKCm7emTfYhJrA5XAz5r5dGQPv3hd4QIJ1QbdI_j5-D_vIomMuQa3fcWTYK8xCV/s200/Screen+Shot+2013-04-10+at+13.44.59.png" width="200" height="199" data-original-width="537" data-original-height="535" /></a></div>Frances kindly participated in an interview for me which will appear in the next issue of SCBWI's Words and Pictures - Writer's Minds, light in tone, but serious in nature, in which she told me about the Emma Peel poster. It's published on line on the 27th April.<br />
Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-56951137555436068022018-04-03T16:51:00.000+01:002018-04-03T16:51:05.665+01:00Paying Forward<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-tmNdoAwFWpUaMxRatXTTkluAudkCJrznn3LwuaEC_ckiwfYqf4-JoeDIGyEWaTwO5BdL6JUIUpt-8SYbnqKY-YwGcGgVcWf2Fr2i7-Qptpxi9k4pisgNhbA_TtyT0SnJrYKJMWZUvD8/s1600/wordfactory-logo-300x88.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-tmNdoAwFWpUaMxRatXTTkluAudkCJrznn3LwuaEC_ckiwfYqf4-JoeDIGyEWaTwO5BdL6JUIUpt-8SYbnqKY-YwGcGgVcWf2Fr2i7-Qptpxi9k4pisgNhbA_TtyT0SnJrYKJMWZUvD8/s320/wordfactory-logo-300x88.png" width="320" height="94" data-original-width="300" data-original-height="88" /></a></div>There has been a lot of talk (and some movement) on how to make a career as a writer more accessible to women from working class and BAME backgrounds, in fact, how to make a career in the arts more accessible to all. The chatter comes from those who have made it, from those who want to see others make it too.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-xV_Z1R85-mQefmtBdHVSjHwaafh-Xs58m3FouQs97CDI7tnWwoE23nplZ1s3ETo2afbQ-XPsGXQ3eFJQey4q6RcFJfsIfQH14cClUAZHgPHMamwkMB5v6acoiqLlZQdYqQWzJjwiitIc/s1600/Kerry-Hudson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-xV_Z1R85-mQefmtBdHVSjHwaafh-Xs58m3FouQs97CDI7tnWwoE23nplZ1s3ETo2afbQ-XPsGXQ3eFJQey4q6RcFJfsIfQH14cClUAZHgPHMamwkMB5v6acoiqLlZQdYqQWzJjwiitIc/s320/Kerry-Hudson.jpg" width="320" height="228" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="856" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivXQj5GpHRC8gaviPT3FgWfCJK1rRqzLzByvOuja8oI9oUWMFRgCMJSUXpVWHIAYjfBd4cFQ8e9B04IgGMlGbaCyY2QNlRahhlz9ZCD7AD-4dh-w4uv6O38iOec8ogsu6sMerL8SM3N1AU/s1600/Kit-de-waal-website.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivXQj5GpHRC8gaviPT3FgWfCJK1rRqzLzByvOuja8oI9oUWMFRgCMJSUXpVWHIAYjfBd4cFQ8e9B04IgGMlGbaCyY2QNlRahhlz9ZCD7AD-4dh-w4uv6O38iOec8ogsu6sMerL8SM3N1AU/s320/Kit-de-waal-website.jpg" width="320" height="263" data-original-width="770" data-original-height="634" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlsQe_bcxeB6w0UR0COAwDszJLuul0bObDeuS_z7li8BOkZzMNb0nEFStwX1BtkCluwfj4F5sYR594me2zVry9sUYTiGiVe4rsx8nLuoeSZ6GWlut1imixWMX3hASRHSa1SlcNI4HYVhB/s1600/th34NEMF02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlsQe_bcxeB6w0UR0COAwDszJLuul0bObDeuS_z7li8BOkZzMNb0nEFStwX1BtkCluwfj4F5sYR594me2zVry9sUYTiGiVe4rsx8nLuoeSZ6GWlut1imixWMX3hASRHSa1SlcNI4HYVhB/s320/th34NEMF02.jpg" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="474" data-original-height="315" /></a></div><br />
I was the first in my family to go to University, supported by a grant. I have to explain what that was to my children and my friends children, the spectre of debt puts many of them off from applying to higher study. I'm from a place where it wasn't considered possible, or responsible, for a woman to make a career as a writer (not that I'm making a living from it, in the financial sense, but the opportunity to write has helped me live my life). At a time when books were expensive and given for birthday and Christmases, my reading, and therefore my writing, was supported by access to my local library. So many are shutting now that recently I had to explain to a child I was teaching what a local library was.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQ0oC9eVLRi9B6LxNBNOC03i3qEwGcIok7jyKOkmvIDI6ZYeqPmLS8J_DQ29VRtHRqgwodtzm2K1Ei8hEnkb0XAWVIqdaiIfZk7OaGOOXHtZ6xv8GRB8_-3Bf9-2KHumT1A3qNwxFP5UX/s1600/thQ01HA9BN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQ0oC9eVLRi9B6LxNBNOC03i3qEwGcIok7jyKOkmvIDI6ZYeqPmLS8J_DQ29VRtHRqgwodtzm2K1Ei8hEnkb0XAWVIqdaiIfZk7OaGOOXHtZ6xv8GRB8_-3Bf9-2KHumT1A3qNwxFP5UX/s200/thQ01HA9BN.jpg" width="150" height="200" data-original-width="216" data-original-height="288" /></a></div>When I won the Wasafiri Life Writing Prize last year I thought it would be good to use some of the prize money to give a leg up to an aspiring writer from a 'less advantaged' background. So, inspired by Kit de Waal's bursary for Birkbeck and TLC access to their 'How to Get a Job in Publishing' course, I've worked with the Word Factory to create an opportunity for a free place on their Suffragette Flash Workshop run by Tania Hershman at Tara Arts. Participants will be helped to write and perform their own flash-fictions, taking inspiration from the words and deeds of revolutionary women worldwide.<br />
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Hopefully, this place will go to someone with an emerging writing mind, it should give them the confidence and self-belief to continue a writing journey. I hope they use it well.<br />
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Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-29169176091501572022018-03-18T15:04:00.000+00:002018-03-18T15:04:06.332+00:00You can't write a novel on your own, can you?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbmgRHa0qxAQXRXXKw7BEXPpQ3OamjiEhB2s6Jig-iHRu22tEso-lr22_8lG8_XOuLDvjtzOrBaub4aqZuAU9xYFjEd9C4RmAwr90BbHMyKNbIkmlbGkVkPPv7gC-SZt9dH8NQOiO7BDKH/s1600/th7BOFH49G.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbmgRHa0qxAQXRXXKw7BEXPpQ3OamjiEhB2s6Jig-iHRu22tEso-lr22_8lG8_XOuLDvjtzOrBaub4aqZuAU9xYFjEd9C4RmAwr90BbHMyKNbIkmlbGkVkPPv7gC-SZt9dH8NQOiO7BDKH/s320/th7BOFH49G.jpg" width="320" height="246" data-original-width="474" data-original-height="365" /></a></div><br />
It's been a while, again.<br />
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Months in which two steps forward one step backward, I've written through snow and storm on a new project, a novel.<br />
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The tail end of last year saw an offer of a mentorship with The Literary Consultancy to develop my Wasafiri International Life Writing winning short story into a novel. I quickly agreed. I had the bones of an idea, something along the lines of a memoir, but semi-fictional, based on the life on my nan in working class Manchester in the last century.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis2ZbYzA50yTYO15dhTREPLKNPq-Ub8i0vMsP2SUn6FJhibaNW5GQobjHfrKo9e-8Yq5clPtxcFAonyH5MG6VH7cZ9lMXH8DShdAKZaX2WyEZ4r9IRYWwTquTaPXIhFArip8EyyNgmFU8j/s1600/IMG_7991+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis2ZbYzA50yTYO15dhTREPLKNPq-Ub8i0vMsP2SUn6FJhibaNW5GQobjHfrKo9e-8Yq5clPtxcFAonyH5MG6VH7cZ9lMXH8DShdAKZaX2WyEZ4r9IRYWwTquTaPXIhFArip8EyyNgmFU8j/s320/IMG_7991+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" height="248" data-original-width="320" data-original-height="248" /></a></div><br />
An event in her life had sparked the short story, but writing a novel is very different. Writing a novel for adults, when for the last ten years I've been writing for children, very different. Writing a novel that smells like memoir, but is really fiction, although based on biography, very different. Writing a novel and persuading the family that it is LOOSELY based on fact, so as not to cause later offence, very hard. I'm slowly getting there, aided by the wise words of the excellent Mary Karr, <br />
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'A central character engaged in a family memoir...the alleged 'truth' of a given voice makes it somehow more emotionally compelling.'<br />
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I can't write this novel alone. It's going to take a family of writers and relations to help me. I'm supported, edited and inspired by my Mentor, the wonderful Kerry Hudson and grateful to Wasafiri for the Arts Council bursary that enables me to have this mentorship.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4Uumcq8cELmYvGf2y4G7eIlhtKatCheyxgWw8xLPmAOfHmBXeS1IE52vC2qt_vFhUH40z2N5WMJYIXurMfoiX3xUfDzN8BhwbVk1oOVlBW5aLC_uOHzgQK6m4lTzbpKvfjWWJRsVoHqk/s1600/Kerry-Hudson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4Uumcq8cELmYvGf2y4G7eIlhtKatCheyxgWw8xLPmAOfHmBXeS1IE52vC2qt_vFhUH40z2N5WMJYIXurMfoiX3xUfDzN8BhwbVk1oOVlBW5aLC_uOHzgQK6m4lTzbpKvfjWWJRsVoHqk/s200/Kerry-Hudson.jpg" width="200" height="143" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="856" /></a></div>I get encouragement from lovely, fellow SCBWI members, research and details of family life from my 92 year old Great Uncle Harry and my second cousin Sue. Help from my mum, who's mother and own life I'm fictionalising, my uncle, original material from my grandfather's letters and research trips to Manchester. Although I missed the murals I wanted to see that inspire my central character by one day, before the town hall closed for a seven year refurbishment. Seven Years! Thank goodness for You Tube videos and books.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4tqW_f1QYbaatEBTRo0CkMLn5JIsExTJx1vFpk2bxS0dJBOOr7ziVRWCmfQt4rtm46WVQmVueThIzvyrzD3z6yf9JMe-_QgoTrFAxAopugeX6CZ-CaPwAvY4Eu1wucxCuG8xHNtoFSqy/s1600/12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4tqW_f1QYbaatEBTRo0CkMLn5JIsExTJx1vFpk2bxS0dJBOOr7ziVRWCmfQt4rtm46WVQmVueThIzvyrzD3z6yf9JMe-_QgoTrFAxAopugeX6CZ-CaPwAvY4Eu1wucxCuG8xHNtoFSqy/s200/12.jpg" width="200" height="107" data-original-width="992" data-original-height="530" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbixzAHci1P6hHVsgx3oyil7ah1aSOsjqDBzpTJTvq16sFAz8a9HvxJcK-kkcahjEauyCLJS-2T_xIsfUWaEj0xw3K_Ya9RGIAZejNTG92vxH9y_LUcosiS64rRMUb9tohYyqBbn0HrhPQ/s1600/JS46346652-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbixzAHci1P6hHVsgx3oyil7ah1aSOsjqDBzpTJTvq16sFAz8a9HvxJcK-kkcahjEauyCLJS-2T_xIsfUWaEj0xw3K_Ya9RGIAZejNTG92vxH9y_LUcosiS64rRMUb9tohYyqBbn0HrhPQ/s200/JS46346652-2.jpg" width="200" height="105" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="630" /></a></div><br />
Paid work, ghost writing memoirs through Story Terrace, has enriched my own writing process, as well as detracted from it. And then there is Word Factory, whose support of my short story adventures gave me the confidence to write and enter the Wasafiri competition in the first place. Whose craft masterclasses and workshops enable me to enrich my text. It was Louise Doughty who suggested I expand my short story into a novel in the first place.<br />
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Take Leone Ross, whose masterclass I attended yesterday, who encouraged me to be braver, tell the truth. Her suggestions for development of character will help me go back to the manuscript and develop it. Shrink (know your character and what they want), Sadist (Plot - bad things have to happen to your character), Parent (have compassion and understanding for your character), God (you are in charge of the narrative, it's not in charge of you). As my nan was my nan, I hope I know her well, I hope I can employ these devices, particularly showing reaction in your character, an internal, emotive reaction to external events.<br />
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So thank you for all the support and encouragement. I hope I can do it justice. I hope the end result is good enough. I'll let you know.<br />
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Meanwhile, I'm continuing to write for children, There's a Mermaid In My Garden is with agents, and I've started a book on lost socks!<br />
Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-52595697695788128572017-11-07T12:01:00.001+00:002017-11-07T12:01:11.512+00:00She Who Dares Writes: Wasafiri International writing prize and Vietnam<a href="http://shewhodareswrites.blogspot.com/2017/11/wasafiri-international-writing-prize.html?spref=bl">She Who Dares Writes: Wasafiri International writing prize and Vietnam</a>: Hearing my name announced as a Wasafiri winner was a surreal moment, watching as I was on the Facebook live stream. It was incredible and e...Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-4003930409246388052017-11-07T11:57:00.000+00:002017-11-07T15:32:00.204+00:00Wasafiri International writing prize and Vietnam<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfWX30Z5luSWGPoySeoy3A3Em3aoQcFsGWD5fucqjLcwDBv4Vem6EgMaF0my-aQIHJhnyI7h2C4tyOP5FVpSZqmA5IGdEhHG0ygcaHJPkoWurVXe9zVFTJ4QvfZb1s6aXnDsTIHUzQ-UvC/s1600/NWP-Life-Writing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfWX30Z5luSWGPoySeoy3A3Em3aoQcFsGWD5fucqjLcwDBv4Vem6EgMaF0my-aQIHJhnyI7h2C4tyOP5FVpSZqmA5IGdEhHG0ygcaHJPkoWurVXe9zVFTJ4QvfZb1s6aXnDsTIHUzQ-UvC/s320/NWP-Life-Writing.jpg" width="320" height="191" data-original-width="570" data-original-height="340" /></a></div><br />
Hearing my name announced as a Wasafiri winner was a surreal moment, watching as I was on the Facebook live stream. It was incredible and exhilarating, I am humbled and delighted. After years of feeling I'm shouting into the darkness, to have the recognition that somebody is listening has given my writing a real boost. The timing was good too, I was on my way to Vietnam, where the win gave me the confidence to quietly introduce myself to my fellow travellers as a writer. Wasafiri's international aspect highlighted new perspectives and possibilities. As we explored Vietnam I fished for stories, finding fodder for future tales. I'm now working on expanding the story of Crinoline Lady into a novel and have taken up the position of Writer in Residence at Talliston House while I continue to write short stories, finish novels for children and approach agents. The future looks hopeful. Thank you Wasafiri. I'm using the prize money to fund future writing workshops and will donate some to a Vietnamese educational charity.<br />
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And <b>Vietnam</b>....<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSR6KDxr1SAUrjCKWygqBq0EsQsoF2fb3BJX67TiEQ8B3ytbZdufQbNUGAuJ9la9IzyN-4zjVrmoP6sylKmISX1LUwWeivhpuZOa_Tu9OtPPkc0c6FaV-Ti-i20TyZ2i9646VQxz65rxfn/s1600/IMG_7284.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSR6KDxr1SAUrjCKWygqBq0EsQsoF2fb3BJX67TiEQ8B3ytbZdufQbNUGAuJ9la9IzyN-4zjVrmoP6sylKmISX1LUwWeivhpuZOa_Tu9OtPPkc0c6FaV-Ti-i20TyZ2i9646VQxz65rxfn/s320/IMG_7284.JPG" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a></div>A cornucopia of sounds, smells and experience. An adventure so bustling I barely had time to write, beyond a brief diary. I was overwhelmed by stimulation, a zoetrope of stories on every street corner.<br />
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It's good to gain a new perspective, life in Vietnam is so different. The weather for a start, we left the autumnal chill of England to immerse in the soup thick air. First stop, Hanoi. We arrive two days ahead of the rest of the tour group and launch ourselves into the chaos of the city. After a few days the chaos seems to settle and we acclimatise to the raw, uneven pavements, crowded with street traders and cooks, squatting over tidy fires, spilling broth and noodles into bowls, devouring lunch on tiny plastic chairs at roadside tables. The smell enchants, cinnamon, star anise, thai basil, clove, pho broth and noodle. Pavements are blocked by mopeds, sometimes driving towards us at alarming speed, and split by the roots of twisting mango trees. We learn to walk in the gutter, towards and amongst the swarm of traffic, crossing the road, head down, slowly plodding and not to look to the left or right, while mopeds, cycles and rickshaws dance around us, laden with children, mattresses, slaughtered pigs, fighting cocks, bananas and pineapple. Later in the week we see a moped driver hauling his cow the wrong way along a road.<br />
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As dusk falls, the cafes and food stops do their washing up in huge bowls lined along the street, spilling the dirty water into the gutter. Sandals are better than trainers, you can wash your feet. We are stopped by old ladies balancing basket panniers of fruit. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOGFeE59FvvAftYAwbasUYZ6-B3lB5Q-MKarNuL1kJfwMUcdb9u8i3VVqo0joCRhtusOe_BtuF5bOibV4BA-i-JyyYetuK8phnIN2nYk4wS_QD6BvLleNRMABhK-3IoRwna2zmeovfWOgu/s1600/IMG_7391.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOGFeE59FvvAftYAwbasUYZ6-B3lB5Q-MKarNuL1kJfwMUcdb9u8i3VVqo0joCRhtusOe_BtuF5bOibV4BA-i-JyyYetuK8phnIN2nYk4wS_QD6BvLleNRMABhK-3IoRwna2zmeovfWOgu/s200/IMG_7391.JPG" width="150" height="200" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>They want to place it across my shoulders and take a picture, we politely decline, but do agree to the many times we are stopped around Hoan Kiem Lake, a green oasis of calm in the centre of Hanoi, where students eagerly engage us in conversation, practising their English. I lost count of the number of times my husband had his tummy rubbed for good fortune, he now knows he looks like the happy Buddha. It's the only holiday where we have lost weight, the food is fresh and nutritious, low in dairy, carbs and sugar, although we drink beer every day (La Rue is one of the best) we walk an average of 4 miles daily, sometimes nine, and this helps. Our first evening we venture to a small cafe up the street from our hotel, Dinh Ky My Gia, where the Pho is so delicious we return several times. We visit the citadel which is crowded with beautiful youngsters in bright traditional dress celebrating university graduation<br />
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In our first days we feel adrift in the cacophony of sound, unique, or we stick out like a sore thumb among the conical hats and yokes carried by older women selling deep friend fancies. It's the women's voices that are the loudest in Vietnam, a hopeful state of culture. Just as we are beginning to feel special, the rest of our tour party arrives and we are herded onto a bus, it feels wrong to see the city from a vehicle, but has it's advantages, it gets us places. <br />
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With our tour group and guide we go to The Ho Chi Minh Mauseoleum. Crowded with other tour groups there is a sense we are transported to red square, Moscow. I use my scarf as a sarong, they don't seem to appreciate knees in special places and pagodas.<br />
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'Uncle Ho' wanted to be cremated, but the powers that be thought a monument to his greatness more fitting. He's not in, the mummified body has been taken back to Russia for it's annual mot.<br />
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We visit his simple house and the one pillar pagoda, a blend of ancient buddhist structure and more modern requirements.<br />
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Vietnam is a country of contrast, of 54 different ethnic groups, who all seem to rub along without prejudice or acrimony, there is room for different religions and beliefs, a communist country, that barely seems completely communist, Cap-Com (Capitalist communist) with socialist leanings. There are parts that remind me of Cuba. Everywhere people are polite, charming and forgiving. There are reminders of the war, but it seems the country has moved on, without bearing grudges, 'Holding on to what floats' with American, Japanese and South Korean investment.<br />
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Throughout the holiday our canny tour leader, Long Thanh Le, gets us away from the crowds by arriving early. He calls us, 'my family' and shepherds us like a group of children, in loco parentis (he is an ex-teacher) throughout the trip. We feel looked after, informed and entertained. Long is a font of knowledge about Vietnam, charismatic and energetic. This is what makes Explore special, the guides are great, we're lucky to have him. He's thoughtful enough to present flowers for my birthday at the end of the trip, there are five birthdays in a group of eighteen people while we are away, and he celebrates every one.<br />
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After the mauseoleum and a restful refresh in the air conditioning of our hotel we are whisked through the streets of Hanoi in a convoy of rickshaws, an experience I find strangely relaxing, despite spotting my driver with his eyes closed.<br />
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We're taken to the charming and unusual water puppet theatre, puppets in a paddling pool, gracefully dancing across an underwater tank accompanied by traditional Vietnamese music, then on to another delicious meal at The Five spice restaurant. The next day we drive to Halong Bay, the burgeoning Vegas of Vietnam. Along with Danang, it's developing into a massive resort town on the edge of mining lands where coal towns squat. Long takes us to a more traditional spot for dinner. He promises Fondue, we all expect an alpine dip, but it's broth over small, table-top cookers. When the plate of grey fish heads, prawns and octopus arrives, my husband's face turns the same colour. I'm glad I'm eating vegetarian and partake of plenty of rice wine, nearly abducted by a friendly bunch of coach drivers at the next table who try to make themselves understood through google translate. We escape.<br />
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Over 600 tourist boats a day cruise Halong Bay, we have our boat to ourselves. It's laden with heavy carved furniture, lunch is fresh and delicious, we cruise through the thousands of limestone islands, spotting jellyfish in the green water, yet some of us are still brave enough to swim off a beach in the Gulf of Tonkin, even attempting a synchronised swimming five point Vietnamese star.<br />
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Later we travel to the station and the overnight Reunification Express train to Hue. It's better than I expected, we double up with two more of a party, and despite the hip hurting thin mattress, manage some sleep, passing through the lush countryside, wide rice fields and endless cemeteries in the demilitarized zone. It's common to bury ancestors in the fields, keeping them close, lonely tombs dot the flat rice paddies. The trip includes almost every form of transport, coach, taxi, train, rickshaw, tuc tuc, bicycle and boat. There are plenty of boat trips from the dragon tourist boats along the Perfume River to a sampan on the muddy Mekong.<br />
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A day is spent at the purple palace, the Imperial Citadel in Hue, a foreboding, beautiful structure with walls of fifteen feet thick, double baked brick and pagodas of polished wood decorated outside with five toed dragons, a symbol of power and a snub at the Chinese four toed dragon. Bonsai crowd the gardens between incense bowls and waving, yellow chrysanthemums. The king slept alone, visiting his 150 concubines on a rota. The girls only saw their families once a year, through a screen. If they passed away, sometimes the families were not informed, perhaps another girl pretended to be their daughter through that screen. So many stories here.<br />
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Our trip take us into the interior, past a farmer stretched out on the back of his water buffalo, feet up as if he were on a sofa, for a brief stop at the old gate between north and south vietnam, where a wedding couple climb up a step ladder to have their picture taken atop a bunker. We worry the bride will take off, like a giant white satin Mary Poppins.<br />
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Then there is the Cham museum, an ancient culture with worship more akin to Hinduism, statues of ganesh, shiva and others.<br />
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Entering Danang Bay feels like coming in to the development of Cancun, we stop at American Beach and paddle near to where fishermen have parked their coracles. Onwards to the marble mountains, up steps to a pagoda full of chanting nuns, huge buddha's in the caves where the Viet Cong hid. On to Hoi An, there are more tourists here, and after a while, the themed streets begin to feel a little Disney, but it is still beautiful. At night the lanterns glow above the streets like a thousand jewels scattered in the dark, the colours by day are just as vibrant, sea glass green, blood red, sky blue and sunflower yellow.<br />
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It is a shopping paradise and we all buy plenty, worrying how our luggage allowance will cope, some of us invest in hand made dresses, suits and waistcoats at one of the many tailors (http://www.yalycouture.com/) before a wander across the river, the Japanese Bridge and into some old merchant houses, where the river level is marked on the wall and a trapdoor in the ceiling enabled the family to haul their furniture upstairs in the event of flash floods. The week after we leave Hoi An is hit by a typhoon, the streets flood and nearly 30 people lose their lives. A reminder of how precarious life can be in this country.<br />
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Hoi An is a hit with the group. Many of us take a boat to an island the next day, spending the morning cycling the countryside, stopping to see families mat and noodle making along the way. My favourite is the coracle maker, an 82 year old gentleman who sits cross legged outside his house weaving a coracle base. He can make up to $600 a month, the new Mazda in his drive and renovated house behind attest to his success. There's no retirement here, you don't work, you don't earn. Life expectancy is good at 78 for men and 80 for women, literacy is 96% Things are improving for the Vietnamese, as always, there is some way to go and there are problems.<br />
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In the afternoon we go full Indiana Jones, visiting Cham Temples in the mountains in the pouring monsoon rain. An internal flight the following day takes us to Ho Chi Minh, Saigon, a city that immediately feels more Western than anything we have seen, although the traffic is still chaotic. We drive out to Ben Tre, transported on the final leg by tuk tuk to the Badanh homestay. A long house and verandah with bamboo and swinging hammocks, wood partitioned rooms and beds with mosquito nets. It's much better than the bunk bed dormitory we were expecting. We spend the evening eating home cooked food and laughing over much rice wine before a restless night of unknown scrabbles and sounds outside our rooms and morning walk through the village surrounded by banana and pomero trees. The next day we wobble into sampans and are transported along the Mekong to a bigger boat, which takes us to the tuk tuks and back to the coach to Saigon. Checking in to the city hotel there's a sense of disorientation, it's so different from the place we have just spent the night. That evening we celebrate another birthday with cocktails on the roof of the Rex hotel, the five o'clock follies, so named after the press briefings given there in the war, which the journalists wearily attended as they were fed 'fake news' (despite Trump's protestations, it's not an original term).<br />
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My birthday is spent walking around Saigon, through Central Park, past the Reunification Palace and to the Post Office to the War Remnants Museum, a sobering reminder of a harrowing event. We visit the Fine Art Museum in the afternoon and have a good iced coffee at The Art Cafe. After a final communal meal that night, we visit the sky tower the next day before dinner with the remnants of our group and our drive to the airport.<br />
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I feel a sense of sadness boarding the plane. I will miss the people in our tour group we have got to know as friends, I will miss our guide, Long, I will miss this inspiring and crazy country, Vietnam. I vow to return.<br />
Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8399015387294296565.post-46694766444175141562017-10-13T15:50:00.000+01:002017-10-13T15:50:55.243+01:00Writer in Residence<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk69L1agVhLz0jEBsj-hYaKC3_zM1K1ZtBxat7gTxJjyBQY-JjwGDZKuUC8ADA3BgD5KO0uig3brVGLTSBDTxybOhtiuMQ6oA58_ypMWm88Ran9ZwshgpCI5l5xnNFJruR92YTc5zZXYce/s1600/talliston+study.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk69L1agVhLz0jEBsj-hYaKC3_zM1K1ZtBxat7gTxJjyBQY-JjwGDZKuUC8ADA3BgD5KO0uig3brVGLTSBDTxybOhtiuMQ6oA58_ypMWm88Ran9ZwshgpCI5l5xnNFJruR92YTc5zZXYce/s400/talliston+study.jpg" width="400" height="158" data-original-width="760" data-original-height="300" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvj9gR6oz1p2fIPEwU-bzIlmDqa5_geVBbRgCwiDuvSxZBRZ9spzLXY2UCV8nStM3U0sCpFBRq9b54YGjiVu2CIcwNxkajnTLgNBt9vh85JDS1QNXHdZIWldIVyf4sLcm1dghC9if-CZ1G/s1600/Talliston+Writer+in+Residence+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvj9gR6oz1p2fIPEwU-bzIlmDqa5_geVBbRgCwiDuvSxZBRZ9spzLXY2UCV8nStM3U0sCpFBRq9b54YGjiVu2CIcwNxkajnTLgNBt9vh85JDS1QNXHdZIWldIVyf4sLcm1dghC9if-CZ1G/s400/Talliston+Writer+in+Residence+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" height="101" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="405" /></a></div><br />
It's all happening this month. There have been highs, lows, nerves and relief. I've felt like I've been hanging on in the back car on The Big One at Blackpool.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-4vXtR8UJ4vYVrJFdUSE98FYj_fN1feC1822XIlFOckF3dgREyPxMjxPkW-Xcjs2FOhizqNX8Vq_oPZerKM2K630xzi0hcNBzEzXBicvxD-Fu0opnmt4BUNmQ24cUqF5o4G2tujLa3ILU/s1600/3BB6402900000578-0-image-m-86_1483092247388.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-4vXtR8UJ4vYVrJFdUSE98FYj_fN1feC1822XIlFOckF3dgREyPxMjxPkW-Xcjs2FOhizqNX8Vq_oPZerKM2K630xzi0hcNBzEzXBicvxD-Fu0opnmt4BUNmQ24cUqF5o4G2tujLa3ILU/s200/3BB6402900000578-0-image-m-86_1483092247388.jpg" width="200" height="147" data-original-width="634" data-original-height="467" /></a></div>There was the SCBWI Agents Party at The Royal Overseas League, London. Listening to the agents give their panel talk, clutching my pre-prepared pitch with impatience and anticipation before the long queue and the long wait before the pounce, the blurb and handshake met with enthusiastic reaction and relief as Yasmin Standen waved me down, 'Don't pitch to me, send it, I love it.' The t-shirt worked.<br />
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A few weeks later I opened an email headed <i>Short Story Prize</i> with some trepidation. You know the drill, hold your breath, speed read and hope. This time it was good news - shortlisted for the Wasifiri writing prize in the life writing category. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghxVFIZ37udtb5ChH3HYVSxZbiZ35-9zu5aec33yAClfdYKyGd8CEBytYFe7xKAcqQdmlD0vUs9XALJAD3vH11G8dwoEJg_zTX-26EiMOnOikTwI2TpGtljw8sSQbD7VgbVtl-AOxM7Grg/s1600/JJf_wzLK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghxVFIZ37udtb5ChH3HYVSxZbiZ35-9zu5aec33yAClfdYKyGd8CEBytYFe7xKAcqQdmlD0vUs9XALJAD3vH11G8dwoEJg_zTX-26EiMOnOikTwI2TpGtljw8sSQbD7VgbVtl-AOxM7Grg/s200/JJf_wzLK.jpg" width="200" height="200" data-original-width="512" data-original-height="512" /></a></div><br />
The biggest thrill of the month came after a tour of the remarkable Talliston House. I'd found out and applied for the Writer in Residence position after popping into a local independent bookshop. Seeing they had a writing group I'd looked up who was delivering the next workshop, Emma Vandore, currently Writer in Residence at Talliston House. I knew about Talliston, but didn't know they had a writer in residence and when I checked it out on their website I discovered I had just a few days to apply. Some muse must have drifted past my window, I was struck with an idea for a short story about a girl helping her mother clear out her grandmother's house, a door not seen before that opens to a room with a talking cat and another door to rooms of improbable and impossible things. Cue frantic writing of a short story based on 'An Extraordinary room.' Sometimes a deadline is what's needed. They must have liked it, announced I was to be the new Writer in Residence after the tour.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWoBZXqAwjfNJ_HxPu6BjM2SwceYGExLfAu1nn5iSEDFf5k25hTeRm10jQUpWCQqnk7Aih8ArZz3JpGTadsmQenRAbGHUP_O_FqY5r6u2c3KsMb7EmUhkLFCfbhhKme50loaoBd5K5Kk4N/s1600/W1siZiIsInVwbG9hZHMvcGxhY2VfaW1hZ2VzLzZiZTBmOGU1MTA1OGIxZTgxNF8xMCBHaWxlc0cgVGhlIFJvb20gb2YgRHJlYW1zMS5qcGciXSxbInAiLCJ0aHVtYiIsIngzOTA-Il0sWyJwIiwiY29udmVydCIsIi1xdWFsaXR5IDgxIC1hdXRvLW9yaWVudCJdXQ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWoBZXqAwjfNJ_HxPu6BjM2SwceYGExLfAu1nn5iSEDFf5k25hTeRm10jQUpWCQqnk7Aih8ArZz3JpGTadsmQenRAbGHUP_O_FqY5r6u2c3KsMb7EmUhkLFCfbhhKme50loaoBd5K5Kk4N/s320/W1siZiIsInVwbG9hZHMvcGxhY2VfaW1hZ2VzLzZiZTBmOGU1MTA1OGIxZTgxNF8xMCBHaWxlc0cgVGhlIFJvb20gb2YgRHJlYW1zMS5qcGciXSxbInAiLCJ0aHVtYiIsIngzOTA-Il0sWyJwIiwiY29udmVydCIsIi1xdWFsaXR5IDgxIC1hdXRvLW9yaWVudCJdXQ.jpg" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="585" data-original-height="390" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZYTTYvm1cYZEpR1IQPjjVQtaixkjv2LZyaUYrLflkK_nGYhpJu8LZkyA9WYVkOqJ9nXn4la-LJHQHSqbIA4DDmPjsusBt7vP450H3ceLVAQi7CTNIRdlRNzjtf5GcqoDGXrEg6MGD_U9/s1600/gallery-1487600987-talliston-house-the-watchtower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZYTTYvm1cYZEpR1IQPjjVQtaixkjv2LZyaUYrLflkK_nGYhpJu8LZkyA9WYVkOqJ9nXn4la-LJHQHSqbIA4DDmPjsusBt7vP450H3ceLVAQi7CTNIRdlRNzjtf5GcqoDGXrEg6MGD_U9/s320/gallery-1487600987-talliston-house-the-watchtower.jpg" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="768" data-original-height="511" /></a></div><br />
Talliston is a cornucopia of impossible rooms, a small, modest house on the outskirts of Great Dunmow. An ordinary house from the outside with thirteen beautiful and extraordinary rooms on the inside. A place where the imagination leaps from place to place beyond the boundaries of normality. I have always been fascinated by the uncanny and remarkable as it exists beside the real, fantastic realism, and Talliston is a fantastically real adventure. <br />
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I can't wait to get started, inspired by Talliston and the rest of the creative team. The residency will give me the opportunity to stay there and immerse myself in its atmosphere, to write new stories sparked by the rooms and their characters and teach masterclasses and workshops over the course of my tenure until October 2018. Who was it who said, 'The harder you work, the luckier you get.'? Seems to be the case this Autumn, it's been a long time coming, but let's hope it continues.<br />
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Jools Dareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02897108528303141678noreply@blogger.com0