@sandradavies
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I’m still hosting https://predictionfiction.blogspot.com/ every
week, which is 2 x 100 words of two serials plus a standalone if inspiration/prompts permit. Also it’s me who judges the winner. So I don’t have much spare time with competitions as well, unless they strike an immediate chord.
I do think Raine’s idea of only commenting the winner is a good idea.Congratulations John, well deserved, and thanks Raine for the judgement and nice comments – hope Life takes an uplift for you.
In absence
‘Anna’s party’s on the 21st. I’ll stay over.’
Anna. Beth’s sister. She and I had a hate:hate relationship for reasons neither of us ever disclosed to Beth. Beth had sense enough not to ask.
On this occasion my smile was for more than gratitude at her tact. An entire night to myself; twelve plus hours, taking into account Beth’s travelling time, suited me perfectly. That it was only three days away was, by the sound of it, less of a problem for me than Beth getting a hairdresser’s appointment.
While she fidgeted in the bedroom, trying to decide what to wear; whether she needed anything new, I planned. For a start, working out what I wanted to say. A little bit of … not ambiguity, but suggestion maybe. But forceful enough to dispel doubt.
I tried to recall what I had in the way of supplies – it had been a while since urge and opportunity coincided. For a brief while, I wondered whether I could still do it – Anna apart, secrecy was alien between us – but I told myself ‘Of course. When will you get a better opportunity?’
Beth left at three. By now the urge to begin, to relax my mind and let the love flow in was urgent. I made straight for my studio. I’d already found a good-sized sheet of aluminium, sanded its edges and degreased it. Had torn 310 gsm Magnani Acqueforti to size and stirred and checked the inks I thought I needed. (Probably only lamp blue black but, just in case, scarlet red and yellow ochre).
I’d applied the etching grounds while she was getting her hair done. I set Verdi’s ‘La Forza del Destino’ playing, put white spirit and cotton rag handy, seized a needle and began.
The hours flew. Wiping, inking, polishing – am I the only man who regrets the demise of Yellow Pages? Their directories perfect for tearing into squares, setting between heel of hand and plate and wiping round and round to remove all but the ingrained lines and shadings? – re-inking and blurring in other areas, putting through the press again, breath held until I can answer – will this be the one?
At 2 a.m. it was. I allowed myself to gaze a moment, then put it under boards, cleaned up and went to bed.
On Christmas Day Beth unwrapped it – mounted, not yet framed. Smiled at me. Said, ‘Yes.’
[400 words excluding title]
Wow, Sea, the December comp had not impinged at all so I read this not knowing the theme – what stunningly beautiful – crisp and fresh – sensory descriptions, and clarity of insight. Loved it.
Yes, Thea – that ‘never apologise, never explain’ – I read, many years ago, that to do so was a sign of immaturity, but it’s one I haven’t always managed (not so much about my writing, I’m glad to say).
I realised that, when in the habit of being ready and willing to apologise, I was giving myself an excuses to fail.
Joining groups such as the Cloud, partaking in story challenges – stretching myself so as not to embarrass myself, judging my work against the very varied submissions of others, and trusting that my peers will give it the respect the situation merits – has well and truly cured that.
Where I do genuinely struggle – and generally fail – is when an invitation to submit a novel cites, as requirements, something that will, “excite, enthral, blow our minds”.
I think of all the books I’ve read that have done that for me … and am truly aware that mine don’t match up. Even though I am pleased with what I’ve done.Two bits of advice ‘freed’ me up wrt location, because I usually start with somewhere I know then make adjustments as necessary. Reading a disclaimer along the lines of “geographical liberties have been taken” I much appreciated.
Also, Eimear McBride said when she wrote of Camden, she did it from a 5 year old memory of the place and never consulted Google.“if it doesn’t advance the plot or reveal something about character, don’t prolong it.” – excellent advice! Thanks Jane.
For severe violence done well I’d look at Malcolm Mackay, Ray Banks, Stuart Neville’s ‘The Twelve’. Benjamin Myers ‘Turning Blue’ had me commenting ‘Stomach-churning details precisely told’, or Sarah Hilary. Denise Mina might be good, but I cannot remember which is the most violent.
I’d agree with you Jane, ‘less is more’ works for violent scenes much as it does for sex scenes, though I suppose you’d have to work harder so as to bring something fresh for the readers’ mind to work on.
Those long, graphic scenes can be effective, up to a point but can tun as many off as they do on, so go with your gut feeling.Earth and smoke and iron
It were an odd one and no mistake. She were odd. Educated; not from round here. ‘Otherworldly’ some might say.
She lugged it in, wrapped up in brown paper, tied with string. Knots sealed with blobs of scarlet wax.
‘You’ll ‘after tell me what’s in it, lass –‘
‘A coat. An army one. That’s what’s the smell –‘
I sniffed. And aye, beyond the paper there was earth and smoke and iron. ‘Who’s is it?’
‘It’s Paul’s – He’ll need it when he comes. I’ve told him I’ll leave here, to collect.’
‘And when’s this Paul coming for it, lass?’
‘Soon. He said soon –‘
Her face all aglow in an expectation I hoped would not be broke. Seen too many o’ them over the last few years. ‘I’d best ‘ave your name, lass. And an address.’
That fazed her. Didn’t want to say but couldn’t bring herself to tell a lie.
‘It’s Leonie’ she whispered.
The address she gave the pilot’s cottages, down at the tip of Spurn Point. Last time I was there they were ugly black-tarred wooden huts. Three or four mebbe, but no place for a lass like this one.
Like a crystal glass in the roughest sailors’ dive.Weeks went past. No-one came. No surprise. Then I met Meg Partridge in the street. She a pilot’s wife. Built like a tank, six bairns in five years and stood no nonsense. I asked her, ‘D’you know a Leonie? Married to a Paul?’
Her face did a somersault from scorn to pity and back again. ‘Paul? Her man’s John Cooper –‘
‘Brother, then?’
‘She’s no-one else. John rescued her. Vicar’s daughter, didn’t know owt about anything. When John took her – and he’d put himself to the trouble of wedding her first!– damned near screamed the place down, John said. ‘E’s besotted. Made a promise to a dying man to look after her. Guess that could be Paul.’
‘If no-one comes for it soon I’ll ‘after let it go. Can you tell him to come and fetch it.’
John Cooper wasn’t best pleased.
‘There’s no such coat, ‘cept in her imagination, which has Paul wrapping her in it on the beach every bloody night.’
‘Best we open it to make sure –‘
But sure enough, all there was was the smell of earth and smoke and iron.
‘Iron?’ John Cooper said. ‘That’s the blood he shed before he died.’[400 words + title]
Summer 1999
I told myself, at my age, I didn’t need to be nervous. But knew what I could do well was conscientious.
‘Bring portfolio’ the letter said, so I went out and bought a huge one. Filled it, with two years of one-day a week class-work plus evening Life Drawing. Plus the watercolours I was especially pleased with.
Appointed day, I parked in the college’s near empty car-park –first interview of the day. Lugged portfolio two-handed, somehow aware I was being watched. Regretting – yet again – at fifty-two I’d still not learned how to do elegant.
Man appears, smiling a tricky smile (I later learn that’s just how he is) and I wonder Caretaker? or what, because he doesn’t say but leads me into a high-ceilinged room, glass-partitioned and a smell reminding me of childhood crayons and maybe twirly red Sunday School candles.
And another man, longer, thinner, check shirt, torn jeans and more honest smile.
Stood between the two of them I heave portfolio onto cleared workspace beneath green-painted aluminium window. Unzip and open to reveal what I’d intended as evidence of my … what? Talent? Application? Eagerness?
Feel a fool, aware of exchanged glances, me pig ignorant in the middle.
Then nicer man seizes one, examines, asks question I am able to answer. Give me confidence to apologise: ‘Had the bag not been so big I’d’ not have felt it necessary to fill it!’
They lift pieces out, look and murmur. I excuse. Become conscious of time passing. Of another would-be student arriving. Despondent, I begin shuffling sheets of paper, fingers pastel- and graphite-stained, preparatory to zipping up. To lifting and lugging out.
Then tricksy man says ‘We look forward to welcoming you in October.’
‘Really?’ I beam, amazed and delighted. But wait until I receive official letter before believing.
Accept immediately, before they change their mind.
Unaware just how much the next six years of self-discovery will improve my life.(321 words)
Is there a way to add notifications for new posts in one’s group? I’ve missed ~3 says worth (Of course, it might be simpler for me to better train myself to regularly check, but just wondering)
Why not secure groups per wip, invited/accepted folk only? Nested below/within a Critique section? Surely mixing them up would soon become unwieldy.
Raine, as you know, I’m a lazy, non-analytical reader, so you’re getting facile first impressions from me – and thanks for ‘stochastic’ – but I thought this a really enticing beginning, launching lots of characters, all of whom promised interest, tension and above averagely intelligent entertainment.
Brilliant blog, as ever, and I’ve done other 100 days things over the years and can vouch for their effectiveness, but this time I too have novels to edit and to write (and in any case have no need of inducement to write every day)
Superb news Kaz – I’ve always loved your writing so know this is very well deserved. I’ll be in Melbourne in November, but more whizzing in and out a couple of times, on our way elsewhere, Will send you a closer wave, at least.
Just read it – told with your usual heart-warming warmth, salted, as always with human reality. Excellent.
