Clapping permeates night’s stillness
And emerging into darkness
She feels suddenly not alone.
Her face, her outdoor face, is smiling.
Protective arms are placed about her children
As lovingly she looks upon her man
And in this moment’s madness she feels somehow safe
Connected to a world she understands.
She will speak no word about her fear To sap her strength – to break her,
As she knows such words will only lose their trust,
So silently she locks away her demons,
Buries the key deep down amongst the dust.
Yet inside the minefield of her head Dark images mingle, Gnaw away, struggling to get free,
They pummel and punch as they jostle and joust,
Barging and banging as they fight to get out,
Tormenting her soul, unwilling to let her be.
A movement from a child
Returns her back to ‘mother mode’,
The place where she belongs,
The place she feels at home,
So restoring her smile she claps instead,
Ignoring the turmoil invading in her head,
And she wonders if other mother’s are being misled
By demons which are banging in their head.
With half the world in shutdown
I find it strange to see
Loo rolls being the commodity
Folk consider a priority –
Alongside pasta – the new staple
We Brits need on our dinner table.
What happened to yesterday’s newspaper
Hanging on a nail?
When our only antiseptic gel
Was cold water from a pail?
Spaghetti was a foreign food
Heinz put in a tin –
And long-life milk, so disgusting
We threw it in the bin!
The only place to buy things
Was from the corner shop,
And the only Corona to find there
Was Dandelion and Burdock pop!
It seems now we need a lesson
On how to wash our hands,
We are so reliant on Facebook
Our heads stay buried in the sand.
We no longer make decisions,
Allowing others to cloud our visions,
As we scurry like Santa’s little elves
Grabbing loo rolls from the shelves.
We observe as man destroys us –
We recognise it happening, but ignore it.
Have we become complaisant and accept our fate,
Shunning scientist predictions, sanctioning leaders to dictate –
Their influence led by image, not survival?
Eschewing suffering we watch our land flood,
See people made homeless, their fields turned to mud.
The ground beneath our feet is iced in concrete,
Hedgerow’s are mutilated, air polluted,
Yet we remain muted.
Our island is Great, but our voice is small,
It’s not our shame; we don’t hold the blame,
That’s someone else’s chore…
Writing a novel I find fun, challenging and exciting. I even enjoy editing – changing words around, reforming sentences, moving punctuation – honing my work. However, the area I can’t come to terms with is marketing, when I have to leave my comfortable ‘inner self’ and face putting my completed work ‘out there’.
But surely this is what writing is all about – reaching the end and offering it for others to (hopefully) enjoy. Yet when I reach this stage the knot begins to tighten in my stomach, as I come away from my world of imagination and walk towards the real world – as me.
I’m not sure why I feel this way, it’s certainly not fear of rejection. I know I’ve never been great at accepting praise, preferring to be told where I went wrong and what I can do to improve. I find some comfort in that.
I read tons of advice:-
Have a comprehensive email list / be active on social media / have a personal website / include sample chapters / post blogs, / link to an Amazon page / contact booksellers and libraries – COMMUNICATE! All positive things to do, I agree – and I will do them when my next novel, ‘Away With The Fairies’, comes out in a couple of months time. See I’ve already started plugging it!
Are most writers shy and introverted? Do we need to be in order to delve deep within ourselves?
Please post your thoughts – and feel free to promote your next novel if you wish. Remember too, I am comfortable with criticism – so don’t hold back!
When I retired from teaching drama I thought I’d never find something to take it’s place – until I began to write!
Believing there to be certain similarities between the two I set about questioning their differences.
Drama teaching involves developing characters the playwright has already created and the teacher, or director, has the job of bringing those characters to life and putting flesh on their bones. It involves costuming the characters appropriately and visualizing where the action is taking place in order to produce a set. It is then about polishing the play, until it feels ready to be viewed by others, the audience – and it is about marketing – things we also need to do as writers.
The main difference, as I see it, is that with drama I am ‘looking outwards’. I am viewing what I have interpreted from reading the script. While with writing I become locked ‘inside’ myself, lost inside my own head. I become unaware of what’s going on around me, where time vanishes and I ‘become’ each of my own imagined characters. It is only after my work is done that I have the luxury of hearing their voices ‘out loud’ as I edit my work.
So, for me, the difference between drama and writing is – in drama we bring to life someone else’s thoughts and ideas and present what we imagine from the page – while looking out – while in writing we delve inside our own imagination to develop, control, visualize and plot the path we wish our characters to take – thereby having more hold over them.
I am still learning and am sure I always will be. But the road I now travel is taking me on a new and exciting adventure, an adventure where I am the one in charge.