Moonwalk Diary - Part One

Saturday evening, 8.30pm - we arrive in Hyde Park. 'Will you do it with us?' we ask the taxi driver. 'Not bloody likely.' And he's dropped us off before we can arrange to meet him later somewhere along the route to hitch an illegal lift. The park is full of people - women AND men - with pink hats and pink glittery bras on our t-shirts. We're all slightly hyper, and it's strangely reassuring that I'm not the only nervous one. The noise inside the park is overwhelming and all you can see is pink...



Once inside the pink marquees - after a long long queue - everybody strips off. The rain's a bit of a downer, but we get given space blankets and see through ponchos to wear. We join the queue for our food only to find we're waiting to get a tattoo by mistake. Later we join the queue to have a massage. This seems an evening for queuing, but it's all good-natured, not least because there are constant reminders everywhere of why we are there (and how lucky we are to be there at all):



We finally set off walking around midnight, and it seems to take hours to get out of the park. We take a winding route down to the river where, just when we need it, we are cheered by the sight of London Bridge bathed in pink light especially to match our hats:



It's been so noisy as everyone talks and laughs, but slowly it's noticeable how we get quieter and quieter as exhaustion sets in. We pass Big Ben as it strikes three o'clock in the morning. There's something wrong with the mile markers between 15 miles and 20 miles because there must be at least three miles distance in between. The wonderful volunteers along the route claim they're right however, and I can't be the only one wondering if it's worth it. A conversation about maybe doing it next year, or at one of the other moonwalks round the country, has been firmly put to one side. Round every bench along the way there are empty painkiller and blister plaster packets:



One thing that keeps me going is the texts and phonecalls we start to get. Messages from friends and family who have remembered us and stayed up to pass on their good wishes get passed around the group. 'So proud of you all', 'Go girl go', 'Stay warm, stay dry, walk well.' Not for the first time that night, I keep bursting into tears. Normally I hate mobile phones going off, but we're all smiling every time we hear that someone has got a new message. We need all the help we can get.

We can't believe our luck in that the rain stays off. At twenty miles, I've been promised a special painkiller. When we reach the marker, I'm overjoyed. My whole world seems to have reduced down to my legs and my feet. I'm trying to work out whether the bird who starts singing at around Battersea Dogs Home is following us or not. We are all finding it difficult to concentrate, and I spend at least one mile trying to remember who it is who designed the famous '58% don't want Pershing' t-shirt.

Luckily none of us can remember the words to that Westpoint marching song either, and then, as the light comes up, we get a second wind. It's a beautiful morning and we're on the home stretch:

Moonwalk Diary - Part Two

Sunday morning, 7.15am. We've been walking over seven hours when we get the phonecalls to tell us that our partners are waiting for us - at least we've got a lift home. I start to have fantasies about bacon sandwiches and cups of tea. Possibly the worse part of the walk is when we re-enter Hyde Park, nearly twelve hours after we first arrived. We can glimpse the pink tent across the park but have to walk round the outside for two miles before we cross the finish line.

Bemused tourists stare at us. Children wait along the edges and then whoop 'Mummy' as if they've seen a celebrity. I'm crying again. A banner held up by a middle aged couple just reads: 'Thank you'. It's hard not to think of who they must have lost to cancer. Bloody, bloody tears.

Outside Buckingham Palace, we see two of our partners in the crowd. I'm so dazed I can hardly recognise them. We stop and have our photographs taken, and almost skittishly, show off our decorated bras that have been hidden under warm fleeces for most of the walk. It's the first and last time I expose myself to the Queen.

And then at last, at last, it's almost like a mirage, but we finally see the end:



I'm going to say it myself but it's a big achievement and I'm so proud. Not just for the walking through the night and surviving 26.2 miles on our feet to win our medals ...



... but most of all, when we hoped to raise £500, as a team we actually managed well over £1,000 - and, hint hint, you're not too late to sponsor us. The page will be up for at least another week. All the money raised from the night is going specifically to buy machines that will allow those undergoing chemotherapy treatment to keep their hair.

(And those of you - you know who you are - who only promised to sponsor if they got to see pictures of me in my bra, you are very very sad but I never renege on my word. Email me. I promise not to humiliate you publicly - oh lordie, I think I just have, haven't I????)

It sounds cheesy, lots about the Moonwalk could sound cheesy, but it was a joyful, painful, but most of all life-affirming evening. There was a moment before we set off when I looked round the room and had a Shania Twain moment and was completely and utterly overtaken by just how proud I am to be a woman. Although special kudos to the men taking part. Your bras looked lovely too!



And most of all, a HUGE thanks to Nina Barough CBE, founder of the Moonwalk. It was an amazingly well organised and incredible evening. We can't have been the only ones wishing Nina would stand for PM and show everyone how it can be done...

Free cake alert....

Scott Pack's offering to bake a cake for the winner of his 'Best of the Rest of the Booker' poll, which has to be a Good Thing.

It was fun being on the judging panel to contribute to the list of ten books, although I will admit to a Lily Allen moment and say I haven't read ALL of the shortlists. Too busy eating cake probably.

Bookshelves with attitude...

It's the hands on the hips I love best. It feels like one of those kids games where you had to pop down the teeth of the dog before it chomped your fingers off. Remember those? Somehow I think if you took one of these books off the shelf to read, the bookman would start chasing you. Hey, it could be a good alternative way to encourage reluctant readers - offering the spice of danger those cosy reading corners are just lacking!



This is borrowed** from the Bookshelf blog.

(**Ok, ok, stolen... come and get me if you dare, bookman...)

A month in the country?

Hijacked from another place. It just looks so tempting!:


New opportunity for emerging writers!
Jura Malt Whisky New Writer Retreat


For the first time this year, Scottish Book Trust is offering a new
unpublished author the chance to spend the whole of October on the Isle of
Jura (the island to which George Orwell retreated to find the seclusion he
needed to write 1984) to concentrate on theri writing.

We think this project would be of great interest to Creative Writing MA
students and would be very grateful if you could forward this information to
them.

The Jura Malt Whisky New Writer Retreat, in partnership with The Times, will
give a new writer an exceptional opportunity to develop their writing away
from the hustle and bustle of life. The successful applicant will receive:

* A £2,500 bursary

* Exclusive use of the Jura distillery lodge for October 2008

* The option to bring family and/or friends for all or part of their
stay in the lodge

* Use of a hire car

* Return travel costs within the UK

The project is open to prose and fiction writers who are not the sole author
of a commercially published book, but they must have had a story published
in an established magazine or anthology.

Please submit a story that does not exceed 3000 words, the application form
and no more than 1000 words on why you wish to spend a month on Jura.

Click here
n/the-jura-malt-whisky-writer-retreat/new-writer-retreat-application> for
more information and to download a copy of the application form.

The deadline for applications is 9 June 2008.
The successful applicant will be contacted by the week commencing 28 July.

Sue Guiney's Interview and the Great Guest Giveaway

Photograph by Andre Ainsworth


I'm pleased to bring Sue Guiney to you today. She's the author of Tangled Roots, her first novel which I enjoyed enormously not just because of the mother/son and sibling relationships it explores, but because it gave me the illusion I could actually understand and enjoy Theoretical Physics and Cosmology. That doesn't happen often.

Anyway, Sue's a bit of an inspiration to me. She's started a charity, the Curving Road to support other artists, and she's not afraid to try different forms herself. I haven't caught the performance of her poetry play, Dreams of May yet, but I liked reading it very much.

And now, I've persuaded her to answer some questions, despite the fact her book is published tomorrow and life is more than a bit hectic. More than that, she's my GIVEAWAY NO 2 - not her, but a first edition hardback copy of TANGLED ROOTS which I am buying and she has kindly agreed to sign for the winner. If you'd like to be put in the draw, then send me an email - sarahsalway@googlemail.com. You have until FRIDAY to enter and I'll announce the winner here.


So here are Sue's answers ...

1. When did you first call yourself a writer and how did it feel?

There are really 2 parts to this answer. I first called myself a writer – to myself – when I was eight and first discovered my love of reading. I thought, “Hey, this is cool. I can do this.” From that point on I wrote short stories and plays, and kept a journal. Ah, innocence….But when I became more self-conscious, I began to say “I want to be a writer”, and that’s where I left it, regardless of whether I was writing or not, for a very long time. I then stopped writing completely sometime after Uni, suffering from what I call a “pathological respect for literature,” (ie who do I think I am to think I can do this?). I stayed like that for an even longer time. I consciously decided to start calling myself a writer to the world when I started writing “seriously” about 15 years ago, when it became the focus of my work life, and when I started studying with a tutor. But I said it very faintly so almost no one could hear. To be honest, it wasn’t until very recently that I could say it without fear and embarrassment. Now I say it with a mixture of pride and incredulity.


2. How does your love/knowledge of theatre affect your writing ie do you think in terms of scenes, dramatic tension, dialogue etc? AND 3. You write in different mediums - can you talk about advantages/disadvantages of this?

I’d like to answer these together. I do tend to “see” what I write as episodes/scenes/vignettes. I envision what I am writing as a whole and then go for it. But if I was going to say any one genre that I work in actually affects the way I write in other genres, I would have to say that poetry is what affects everything else the most. I do believe that it must ultimately all be poetry in the end. My first and main way into anything that I write is through words, then character, then theme, setting, plot, etc – but the words always come first. For me, it is the aural and emotional impact of the words that must drive everything else. If anything, this is my one frustration with writing for the theatre. There just aren’t enough words in plays these days to make it quite as satisfying for me to write. But having said that, the piece always chooses its own genre. A poem is a poem because it has to be. A novel a novel because that’s the only way to write it. A play is a play because it demands that visual form. So, I suppose that’s why I write in so many genres. The words and the concept of the piece demand a certain genre, and so that’s how I write it. Who am I to argue? It might sound a bit precious, but it’s true.


4. Top three tips for someone wanting to write?

1. Read a lot and everything
2. If you really want to write, then just do it. Keep writing regardless.
3. Find someone you trust to give you feedback.

Can I do one more?
4. Don’t let your fear paralyze you. (easy to say, eh?)


5. How do you see your future as a writer?

This is the hardest question of all. I truly have no idea how large a readership I will ever achieve or if I will ever really achieve a readership at all. But the publication of my first novel has forced me to face my own ambition, which is to be able to write what I write, get it published and have it be read even by people who don’t necessarily already know me (I still feel like I have to sell each book, each theatre ticket to one person at a time). It would also be nice to think that I might make even just a little bit of money one day. But these are goals and don’t actually answer the question. I see my future as a writer as someone who continues to write what I feel I need to write regardless of the genre, who continues to apply my creativity not only to my words but also to what I do with those words, to be someone who spends her working life writing for as long as these little fingers can hold a pencil.

And I can’t help myself….

6. if you were a desert, which one would you be?*

Gobi – I’ve always loved the way that words sounds.


(*Sue's teasing here - I'd meant to ask her what pudding she was, ie dessert, but this is a much better question so I'm claiming it as mine. What desert would you be?)

Giveaway - Day 1

I roped Clare in to be a Book Fairy with me for my first day of the challenge - we left ten books on benches in our nearest park saying 'Enjoy and pass on', timing it just before the school run when the park fills up with parents and children. We tried to be as secretive as possible ...






...but I'd only been back half an hour when another friend rang to say her lodger had come back with one of our books and she'd known straight away I'd be involved. What is it about giving things away that feels as if you're doing something wrong? Clare and I were trying to work out what the opposite of a robber is.

And now two hours later I've just been back to the park and all the books have gone. It's a nice feeling, being an un-robber.

Tuesday Top Ten

My choice of books are up now on the fabulous Book Depository site's weekly Tuesday top ten slot.

The Great Give Away Challenge

I'm joining the 29-day giving challenge for a number of reasons. This means giving away one thing every day for the next 29 days and recording the feeling, as part of a community of others doing the same thing. So here are some of the reasons I'm doing this...

a) I first saw it on the Unclutterer site, and I love the idea of the freedom involved in just giving "Stuff" away. I'd like to get into the habit of not holding on to things I don't care about any more.

b) I like the challenge aspect - my first thought is to give away books, but I've got 29 days to fill and even I don't have that many books I could bear to give away. More to the point, I want to do something fun with this too.

c) Because it's not all about being saintly, there's a real sense of humour here too - plus it is scientifically proven to make you better looking.

d) Sometimes it's good to be reminded I'm one of the lucky ones because I've got things I can give away and I can choose what and where they go.

e) I think it will make me happy.

f) It gives me the chance to make other people happy.

I'm going to put a note up here of what I have given away every day (although I might not post every day!) but if anyone's got any useful - legal, decent etc etc - suggestions, I'd love to hear them! And if you join in yourself, let me know and we can keep each other going!

Useful Things To Know No. 1

If you ever meet a white shark, poke it in the eye.

My claim to fame...

Well, there I was thinking I might be remembered for my wit, or my incisive descriptive powers, or my ability to string two words together, but no! It seems I am 'one of the very few authors to walk round London in my bra'. Never mind, there's still time to sponsor me here and for those who have already, and I've been really moved by how many have, thankyouthankyouthankyou!

Seriously, I was really happy to have the chance to 'bare my literary bits' on Pulp, and although all the stories this edition are great, Sarah Butler's stood out for me.

Housekeeping

One of my many legacies from staying at VCCA is an on-line addiction to the New York Times. I've been following this discussion about Housekeeping with interest, not least because so many people I admire say that Marilynne Robinson is their favourite author. No, they don't actually say that, there seems to be something about Marilynne Robinson that makes people say she is the ONLY author that matters. But I don't get this, which is why I'm really engrossed in this discussion. I have enjoyed both Housekeeping and Gilead, but that doesn't seem anything like enough. To Robinson fans, enjoying is like saying something is 'nice'. No, there is definitely a door to her work that needs to be unlocked for me, and then I can stop feeling I'm missing out.

Meanwhile, there's an interesting profile from 2004 here.

The optimist and the pessimist...

An optimist and a pessimist were walking along together.

'I don't know,' said the pessimist. 'Things couldn't really get worse, could they?'

'Oh I'd never say that,' replied the optimist....


I don't know why, but that joke always makes me laugh. And it's all about a different way of looking at things - seeing things aslant, which is why I will persist in putting the photographs up on this blog in a sideways fashion. Nothing, no nothing, at all to do with the fact that I keep trying to save them rotated but my laptop just won't let me. Anyway, moving swiftly on... this photograph is of the very talented Canadian textile artist, Anne Kelly who I'm lucky enough to be working together with on a top secret project this Summer.



She came round to show me her latest work, which I show to you...



Just look at this close up of the bug...



These pieces are all made of recycled materials, and most of them done by hand. The photographs don't do them justice as I can't tell you how beautiful they are in real life, and how lucky I feel to see the different stages and ways of thinking involved in creating them. Actually now I think of it, I'm going to ask Anne if I can take some pictures of her artists journal as she works out some of the thoughts behind the work we're doing together and compare them with my pages of words as I struggle with the same process. It's been interesting to me to see how different visual planning is - not quite as polarised as optimist and pessimist, but definitely another angle. It makes me realise how much I need to work out what I think through actually writing - lists, dialogues, poems, free association, freewriting, mind maps - it doesn't matter what form as long as the pen is moving and I'm using words. I wonder if I dare try a drawing? Or even - as Twyla Tharp suggests in her excellent book, The Creative Habit dance it out. The thought makes me freeze with self-consciousness in a very stupid English way, which probably suggests I need to give it a go.

(Oh, but look, I've managed to make Anne stand upright. That'll please her. I'm obviously - finally - becoming the boss of my computer. This is a happy day. I wonder if it will mean no more error messages and just cheery little 'Mission Accomplished' notices every time I try to do something different? Let us be optimistic. After all, things could hardly get worse ...)

Dog days

I was in two minds as to whether to read Mark Doty's memoir, Dog Years, because the subject - the lives and deaths of the poet's two dogs - is a bit close to home at the moment.



My little dog, Tallulah, is in the last run of her life. Despite numerous x-rays we're not sure what's wrong with her, so all we can do is monitor her to make sure she is comfortable. Most of the things she used to enjoy - walks, chasing squirrels, greeting us - are proving too 'exciting' for her, and she'll even black out during a gentle walk.

However, Mark Doty's book doesn't do what I feared, which is to blank out my own experience and batter me with his. Instead, it's like all good writing - it feels like a conversation with someone who completely understands. I knew I was on safe ground in the first few pages, when he talks about the guilt involved in feeling so much compassion for an animal when there are so many humans who need our love and sympathy. I've been feeling this shame myself everytime I look at Tally's battery of medicines:



..and think of how many people can't afford medical care. It's wrong. I can't deny it, but as Doty says:

'...the plain truth is no one should have to defend what he loves. If I decide to become one of those dotty old people who live alone with six beagles, who on earth is harmed by the extremity of my affections? There is little enough devotion in the world that we should be glad for it in whatever form it appears, and never mock it, or underestimate its depths.

Love, I think, is a gateway to the world, not an escape from it.'

I want to read that again and again. This is a beautiful book - more a meditation than a memoir. I'm savouring it, page by page. Not just for the poetry of the language but also the way he manages to say all the things I've been thinking - or perhaps wasn't sure I was thinking, but had the vague thoughts jumping around in my head not quite being able to grab hold of them for long enough to concentrate - in such a simple and yet obvious way that it makes you want to bang the table, and say, 'yes, that's what I meant.' One example is how he talks about how so many children learn about mortality through the death of a pet:

'The child's apprehension of mortality is a set of initiations, woundings, introductions to the mystery, and animals are very often the objects of these instructions. The little turtle in the grass, the lifeless snake on the path, the toad crushed by a boot heel, the caged bird whose animation has fled with its song - they are far more themselves for us as children; they lead us into the depths of this life.'

Meanwhile, Tally is enjoying the sunshine, although we've noticed that rather than looking out, as she always used to, she's now taken to hiding, looking in. This shouldn't be a morbid post, she's had a wonderful life and is still enjoying it. And we're enjoying her.

As Doty says:

'Because dogs do not live as long we we do, they seem to travel a faster curve than human beings, flaring into being, then fading away while we watch. An animal's life is for us a theater, in which we may see the forces of time and mortality played out in a form smaller than our own bodies, and more swiftly.'

The Shed

It's probably pretty obvious, even to casual visitors, that I'm a big fan of the Shedworking blog. Obsessions of every kind do it for me, so I'm very proud to say that I've been commissioned to write a serial for The Shed magazine, the first part is out now. You can sign up for it here. It features sheds, wicked witches and giant vegetables (but in a good way).

Tick tock

Not sure this is all that kind of me because it's ridiculously catchy. I've just been singing this all round Sainsburys and getting some very weird looks!

Alien Fruit

OK, the fruit is now long gone and some of it was delicious and some of it tasted like old socks. You couldn't tell which was which from the outside, and all of it was very very drippy indeed.

Prize for the inside looking least like the outside goes to this one, number three, still unidentified. The skin was like thin brittle cardboard to cut through but once I did, suddenly all this 'stuff' came oozing out. I kid you not. I was worried hundreds of alien eggs had been left to hatch inside:



But I resisted being sick and for the sake of research I slurped those little ET babies and they were DELICIOUS. So much so I'd had the whole lot before I realised. Slightly disturbing though to see the inside of the shell looked just like I imagine the surface of a planet a long long way from here to look, even down to the tentacles:



So what's next on this blog? Don't say I don't spoil you all with random excitements. I know Bob is itching for another quiz....

Rain rain go away

And as it continues to pour I'm trying to capture my memories of Saturday's sunshine and just being able to sit out on a bench at Sissinghurst and watch the world go by.







And here's the bench at the bottom of the staircase up to Vita Sackville West's famous tower writing room. Although I think she probably didn't sit on it sideways ...

Taking the long view...

(taken at Sissinghurst, Saturday)

A fruity quiz...

We are at the moment a sick household. I'm not quite in a nurse's outfit, but nearly. However there are advantages - not least this amazing fruit bowl which arrived the other day.



An upmarket take on a bunch of grapes, I guess, but it's making us feel a little inadequate. We can identify the grapes, the melon was beautiful, peaches divine, but what the heck is this ..

1)


or this ...

2)


...this...

3)


...and this ...

4)


Answers from more sophisticated blog readers than me would be very much appreciated!.

The Meditator

I've been meditating for several years now. A day without either meditating or writing makes me very angsty indeed, a day without both and you REALLY don't want to be around me. I can scribble or chant wherever I find myself, helped - on the meditating side - by downloading ebooks on to my ipod. However, this means how the reader sounds is all important - nothing worse than having someone who grates at your nerves whispering into your ears. At the moment, I'm hooked on Shakti Gawain. Her pink bubble technique always makes me feel ... well ... pink and bubbly, and I find I can relax the minute I hear her voice.

But now Shedworking has spoilt my tranquility because I have become overcome with desire for The Meditator. Mind, the photographs are a bit like those old Joy of Sex illustrations - nice idea, but the haircuts are more than a little distracting.

Gosh, I'm coming across all judgemental today - I am a Virgo so it's allowed, but I think it's into the Meditator for me until I've calmed down...

On being random...

I've been tagged by Scott Pack to tell you six random things about me, so here goes:

1. I know all the words to 'Flower of Scotland' and can sing it with gusto when encouraged (or even when not).

2. My first drive after passing my test was to take Alan Titchmarsh (then a relatively low-profile editor of Amateur Gardening) to the station after he had lunch with my mum. We nearly crashed, very badly. In fact it was so awful that when we met again a couple of years later at Chelsea Flower Show he went white as soon as he saw me.

3. The first concert I went to was to see Genesis play in Birmingham. Paul, my boyfriend, had booked us both into a men only hostel for the night so we had to walk round the city because we had no money for a hotel.

4. The house I live in used to be Beau Nash's illegal gaming rooms.

5. I have sent off, today, an application to do a post-grad qualification in Garden History.

6. One of my ambitions is to write and publish a graphic novel.


And I tag Nik, Clare, Sue, Patricia, Deborah and Cathy.

Phew, this tagging is exhausting. Here are the rules, one of which I see is to post the rules...


Link to the person that tagged you - i.e. me.
Post the rules on your blog.
Write six random things about you in a blog post.
Tag six people in your post.
Let each person know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
Let the tagger know your entry is up.

In London tonight?

From Pulp Net:

Fiction at the Newsroom with James Meek & Gordon Burn

Authors James Meek and Gordon Burn have placed news at the heart of their current novels We Are Now Beginning Our Descent (Canongate) and Born Yesterday (Faber). Tonight they read short sections from and talk about the writing of their novels with Lane Ashfeldt, in the appropriate surrounds of the Newsroom.

"Gordon Burn is right. The news is now a novel" Mark Lawson

Ticket Offer: [To avail of this half price offer, use the £3 option and quote "Subscriber offer" on door.] A small number of tickets will also be available on the door. Online ticket sales.

When: Wed 23 April, 6.45pm.

Where: Newsroom, the Guardian and Observer Archive and Visitor Centre,
60 Farringdon Road, London EC1R 3GA. Map

A Pulp Net event in association with the Newsroom, Faber and Canongate

Doors open to the Newsroom gallery exhibition 6.30pm - a retrospective of photojournalism by Guardian photographer Don McPhee.

Air Bear

I should be going to New York next week but for all sorts of reasons, I'm not now, so as compensation I've been watching this video of the plastic bags tied to NYC subway vents by the artist, Joshua Allen Harris.

The eternal lament of the writer....

It made me laugh to catch sight of this (the other side of the Tender cow below) when I was nervously walking to my writer's workshop. Luckily they loved - if not me - my story, so all was well.

Alternative things to do with books, No 1

This beautiful little bird, (which could also be Things that Make me Happy, No 2), has sold out sadly but the artist still has some lovely things there.

Problems, problems...

Just what do you tell the kids when you go in for plastic surgery? But luckily there are experts around (as always) to tell us how to do it properly.

Now, I'm not necessarily against cosmetic surgery. But I am anxious about encouraging the four to seven year olds the book is aimed at to think that being beautiful is what it's all about. One suggestion, apparently, for talking about a nose job is that it will make Mummy look "not just different, my dear -- prettier!."

My, I feel sparklier just thinking about it. A short story here, surely?

Things that make me happy, no 1

Finding this mini Etch a Sketch in a toy shop yesterday.

Not only does it fit neatly in my handbag, but it seems that - somehow, by some miracle - I can now master the art of the curved line by twisting both buttons at the same time.

If you're jealous, and far too busy to visit a toy shop, you can get yourself a virtual one here. Move over the Blackberry, eh? Actually I'd love to organise a massive collaboration where a whole lot of writers get given an Etch a Sketch each and they have to write one word which I then shuffle round until I make a short story. It could even be an exhibition - I can see the room lined with Etch a Sketches - where the visitors get the chance to change the story simply by deleting the old word with a few shakes and replacing it with their own word.

Heck, it could even become an Olympic sport.

Anyone know how we could get funding?

Apologies and flying

OK, I didn't mean to offend everyone who might have ever e-winked at me yesterday, and of course I don't actually vomit, it's just I'm British. I don't wink, and so I'm at a loss at how to respond. Toss me some e-pink bunnies, or golfballs, on the other hand, and I'm your girl. ;-)

And so moving swiftly on to things more tranquil ...

Beautiful birdsong here, and this was my view from the table when I was spoilt at lunch yesterday:





After my companion had got over his mortification at me taking photographs and not being generally as cool as him, we agreed that it was amazingly tranquil to be up that high. It was as if everything had stopped moving down below and even time had been suspended.

Then on the train home, I was reading from my lovely new edition of Virginia Woolf's Selected Essays, when I spotted this in the essay, Flying over London:

'Nearer and nearer we came together and had again the whole of civilization spread beneath us, silent, empty, like a demonstration made for our instruction; the river with the steamers that bring coal and iron; the churches, the factories, the railways. Nothing moved; nobody worked the machine, until in some field on the outskirts of London one saw a dot actually and certainly move. Though the dot was the size of a bluebottle and its movement minute, reason insisted that it was a horse and it was galloping, but all speed and size were so reduced that the speed of the horse seemed very, very slow, and its size miute. Now, however, there were often movements in the streets, as of sliding and stopping; and then gradually the vast creases of the stuff beneath began moving, and one saw in the creases millions of insects moving. In another second they became men, men of business in the heart of the white city buildings.'

And in any other business, I'm very pleased to say my website has now been updated. There's no guestbook, but if you visit and have any comments, I'd love to hear them.

Status alert!!!!!

I know I'll get bored of facebook soon, but it's not happening not just yet. One of my pleasures is the way we all get the chance to put little sentences by our names to tell the world how we're feeling. It reminds me of the six word autobiographies there was a craze for some time ago.

Of course, some are better than others. Despite years and years of telling my kids that I am not their friend, I am their mother and that gives me the perfect right to tell them to do their homework or tidy their room, it seems on facebook, we are all friends together. Therefore, I get to see their status alerts. Which has caused some problems. For them. As they are reminded by their mother - not their friend - that prospective universities, employers etc etc, could very easily see their profiles. Therefore to write about not doing any work, getting drunk, or calling their boyfriend rude names, just isn't on.

Still, some of my 'friends' are geniuses at this brief description. George Szirtes, in particular, makes my day. Every day. Here is his at the moment:

George Szirtes is picking up little bits of his professional life and making a daisy chain of them. Pretty is as pretty does.

See there is another strange thing about these status alerts which is that you have to write in third person. And then it is placed by your name like one of those banners flying behind aeroplanes. Wherever you go, you can't get away from it. It's attached to your shoulders, and however much you might flap, that little sentence you thought fun at the time is telling the world that maybe you don't have such a good sense of humour, after all.

Which brings me to another of my daily joys - the way people - ok, including me, especially me - change their status alert again and again to make sure they've got it right. Perhaps they add a little jokey aside at the end, after it's been printed and they see it may look too pompous without one of those winking faces some people insist on using even though it always make me want to vomit. Or else they've been contacted by friends worried about their emotional status. But it's possible to keep track of the changes, so it's a real work in process. And we all get to be voyeurs on other people's insecurities which may not be nice, but sure is interesting.

In fact, it's so easy to get obsessed with the workings of facebook and what your 'friends' are writing about themselves, that I can forget to actually ring them up or see them in real life and talk to them. After all, I've spent most of the day reading exactly how they are, so what else is there to say? Well, you had coffee and hobnobs this morning, then you felt sick because you'd eaten too many, but I'm glad the writing went well after lunch, although annoying about the weather, still good you enjoyed the film you went to with your husband.

As one of the best 6-word autobiographies has it:

Must remember: people, gadgets. That order. -- Brian Lam


And how could I write about facebook without mentioning the most addictive thing of all:




Sarah is veritably the scramble goddess.

If you want to see just how quick I am, watch this video and then double it. Really. I promise.... Would I lie to you, even electronically? just challenge me to a game and see for yourself.

Sarah is always up for scramble...

Sarah didn't mean to be suggestive...

Sarah enjoys a game of scramble....

Sarah is ....

Writing Buddies

I've had several writing buddies over the last few years, not just because I find it friendly, but because I'm not sure I'd get anything done without them. Having just send off my weekly goals to my current brilliant buddy, I thought I'd say a little about how we do it.

Each week, on a given day, we email each other a list of five to ten goals for the week. These could be small - from filing some stories - to big - FINISH NOVEL! - but they need to be reasonably achieved. An extra dimension is that one needs to be frightening - to ring an editor about a story idea, maybe, or to apply for a residency or to send something off to a publication we might not normally consider.

And, at the same time as writing our goals for the coming week, we review how we have done on the previous week. To be honest, I often find I finish the list in a rush just so I don't have to admit defeat, but it does mean that things that wouldn't otherwise get done are completed.

Other rules:

1. We are careful not to clutter up our goals email with chit-chat so it can be kept in a separate file and not leaked into normal e-conversation.

2. It seems to work best with just two people, although I admit I've never tried it in a group. There seems something about just being two that makes me think I'll let the other down if I don't do it.

3. The goals are all related to our writing - not our personal or university - life.

4. Also we keep each others goals so we have a record, not to chase but to cheerlead. Writing can be so lonely, and it feels amazingly supportive to have someone who knows what you are doing on a week to week basis - and actually asks how you've got on. Plus it's inspiring to read what someone else is doing - it always feels to me like a privileged insight into another writer's process.

I can't remember where I first heard about this system, but I think it was in the writing magazine, Mslexia, several years ago. I know it works because I've done things, achieved things, I would never have done if they weren't on my list. And it's very often the frightening things that I would have put off and put off that have garnered the most results.

If anyone wants to know more about how we do it, or if you want to share your own experiences, I'd love to hear about it.

Yes, we have a winner!

I will never now doubt that this blog gets read, all I need to do is to put a free competition up be be reassured by the entries received (even if some of you are shy about leaving public comments). So, let's start the countdown for the grand winner of the Very Cool Competition...

I'm just going to add a bit of tension by talking about something different - which is what they do at the Oscars. Have you noticed? And then they flash to the faces of the nominated who are thinking, 'just bloody get on with it.'

So, first of all, a selection of dog t-shirts from Harrods Pet Department (none of which are the prize, but just look at that sweet dog tutu. Sadly I think Tally is just a little bit too old for it):



(Or this one, which made me laugh out loud:)



But now, the moment you've all been waiting for, here's the winner:



Congratulations, Nik! As soon as I get the t-shirt from the lovely Bluechrome Publishing I will send it on to you.

Eye eye

To London last night to listen to Tobias Hill, Caroline Bird and Don Paterson read poems on the theme of EYES. It was part of a series of readings organised by the charity, Poet in the City.

Some random notes I made on the train on the way back from the reading, and also the discussion afterwards:

* We remember 75% times as much by scent than any other sense (from a question from a member of the audience about how important sight was in poetry)

* A week from which you can't remember any clear images hasn't been a good week at all (Caroline Bird)

* Tobias Hill talked about his good eyesight and how this influenced his poetry. A member of the audience said she was a visual artist with short sight and she found this useful in her work, as she could get the form but not get overwhelmed by the details. And also short sighted people see things better close up.

* Tobias Hill said he looks at things first and only then uses his imagination. I think I mostly work the other way round, and will get inspiration from snippets of stories heard and then look for images, but I might try to be more conscious of my process.

* TH (again) in his poem, Repossession, had the beautiful image of a derelict house becoming 'homeless'...

* and before reading a prose poem, said that poetry on the page was like dried soup. It needed to be read to become whole.

* Don Paterson said that most poets he knew loved watching films, and there were close links between films and poetry.

But I was only half listening towards the end because I kept thinking of a short story based around 'I see what you mean' - someone that actually does SEE images of meaning. Hence it's my prompt for today!

(nb the photograph of a useful portable collection of false eyes comes from a visit to the Wellcome Library, where the reading took place. They are, worryingly, exactly the same colour as my eyes.)

Walking round London in my bra ...

... has to be worth a few quid, surely? On 17th May, for the second time (I must be mad), I'm going to be taking part in the Moonwalk, which is a walk of 26 miles through London during the night. It's in aid of breast cancer, hence the bra - even the guys walking have to do that!



For the sponsorship page for my team, click here, and I will be forever thankful!

Sitting comfortably...?

(from BB's blog. I'm not sure what BB stands for, I think it must be Beyond Beautiful - I love this blog)

A VERY COOL COMPETITION

So you've bought and enjoyed the book ... you have, haven't you? ... so now it's time to wear the t-shirt. And you don't even have to buy this. I have one t-shirt, modelled above, for you to win. Just send me an email with your address on it to sarahsalway@gmail.com and I'll put the names in a hat on Friday and the first one pulled out will get a t-shirt and copy of the beautiful little book containing stories by Sally Spedding, Patrick Chapman and yours truly.

Just think how happy you will be wearing all three of us ...

Rock on!

I've just booked tickets for Rufus Wainwright, and am so excited I forgot to look at the small print until after. Otherwise this line might have put me off:

Please note, some patrons enjoy dancing at some of the non-classical concerts. Should you be disturbed by their enjoyment please notify a steward.

Still at least I know what to do now if some other concert-goers persist in enjoying themselves on the night...

"I must learn to love the fool in me - the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled, masterful tyrant whom I also harbour and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility and dignity but for my fool." - Theodore Rubin

(thought for the day stolen from The Troubadour's e-newsletter)

The Orzipanikanitkcz*

I've purposefully left this post to after noon because I've got into enough trouble this April Fool. I sent out an email to my walking group saying we should start 5.30am walks, but they seemed to think I was just being extra bossy which has got me worried now that I've taken my self-appointed leadership too far.

However, there's a story, The Faery Handbag, in the excellent and fantastical collection of short stories by Kelly Link:



which takes a magic handbag as its central theme. The handbag (made from the skin of a dog who still lives inside) was used by the narrator's grandmother to keep safe the whole village in Baldeziwurlekistan when raiding parties came calling, but they just stayed there. So while one half of the bag is big enough to hold 'a chicken, a egg, and a cooking pot', the other half is made large enough

'to hold all of the village and all of the people under the hill and mountains and forests and seas and rivers and lakes and orchards and a sky and stars and spirits and fabulous monsters and sirens and dragons and dryads and mermaids and beasties and all the little gods that the Baldeziwurlekistanians and the people under the hill worshipped.'

Trouble is that the narrator's boyfriend, Jake, pops into the handbag one day to have a look, and she can't get him out. I thought about this story again when I saw this photograph of Katie Holmes. Surely she's got at least a couple of ex-boyfriends in there, not to mention a whole range of Baldeziwurlekistanian gods?



*Orzipanikanitkcz = the bag of skin where the world lives.