Well I've done it after years without any qualifications... I've enrolled at night school. I am hopeful my sentances will get tighter and my comic pieces will last longer and make you chuckle more.
Anyway here's a little poem I am making up while I type.

I've got lots of things to write.
An lots of things to say.
Oh no! My mind's gone blank now.
I'd better leave it till another day.

Hang on! I know I am not witty.
And some would say it's not even a ditty.
In the end I am just me.
I'm all that I can be.
I write for pleasure.
Without half measure.
It just leaves what you can see.

Oh by the way I have just finished writing another chapter in my book. Hope it gets some laughs.
That's all for now. Joe

The misconception that we writers are all loaded is a particular pet peeve of mine.
Now, I wouldn't turn down some money, but I'm not actually in this to get rich. I enjoy what I do and any money I make from my endeavours is a bonus...

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The day has finally dawned.
In just over two hours I'll be taking my little man by the hand and walking him in the gates of his nursery school towards the exciting yet scary world of education...


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Ooh, and here's today's:

It must be my forties (oh Lord, what then will the fifties be like?...) but I do seem to be finding nature rather more interesting than I found it in my twenties, or even my thirties, though I had softened towards the concept of flowers by then. Anyway, yesterday, I was much amused by a moorhen (should I get out more?) and here is the result:

Protection remembered

A moorhen
plucks its cautious way
across grass,

red beak
carving a slow path
through air,

claws, larger
than its head,
strutting a surprised

and elegant dance
towards denuded bushes.
Yes, my friend,

sometimes I too wonder
where my cover
has gone.


Which somehow brings me nicely into today's counselling appointment, which was all very jolly and we talked a lot about the University, the bliss of people-free days over the weekend and the desirability of enjoyment. However, it must indeed be my week of being invisible - after yesterday's lunch date cancellation, I was running late to my appointment due to Guildford's appalling car park system and a machine that kept spitting my change back at me (so much so that I gave up entirely in the end and drove off to find another car park instead ...) so dashed to the loo when I got to the clinic, whilst giving my name to the receptionist. Anyway, by the time I came back and sat in reception, I think she must have forgotten I was there (I always sit where no-one can see me - which must in itself be revealing), so after ten minutes, I did this soft sheep-cough sort of thing, which is English Women speak for "I'm here and you've forgotten me, haven't you? but I'm too polite to actually say anything so I'm coughing like a sheep to let you know I'm still here." The next moment, there's a slight gasp and she's on the phone to Kunu telling her I've arrived. Hurrah!

But even then, all wasn't plain sailing, as once in the counselling room, I noticed my usual glass of water wasn't on my side-table, but Kunu had no less than four (four! are we expecting a drought?...) glasses of water lined up on hers. I thought she might remember, but after fifteen minutes she hadn't, so I had to be bold and ask for it. We then spent the next few minutes collapsed in uncounsellingy laughter as we agreed that this must be the third occasion I've been forgotten so perhaps Kunu has broken the "where's Anne? I can't see her" run. Here's hoping, eh. Mind you, as long as Lord H remembers I'm here and who I am, I'll be happy.

Post-Kunu, I sat in Waterstone's for a while (what bliss! I do love it there) and wrote a couple of pages to The Bones of Summer, which I shall type up later and two poems. One of which is below (goodness, yesterday's night creatures walk was sooo great!):

The Moth Trap

The warden smoothes his hand
across the blue tarpaulin,

catches a September Thorn
drawn by the piercing glow

of the moth lamp. Other insects
hover near the trap: midges;
smaller moths; three hornets

more confused than angry. ‘Look,’
he says. ‘Look at the wings,
the angle they make against my hand.’

And I do look, though for years,
before the beginnings
of my memory, I have been afraid.

I look and see the grey-brown
body, smaller than half my thumb,
the cornered wings, raised

a little, as if ready at any moment
to launch into the woods’
consuming darkness,

the small dark eyes
almost fearless. And I think

I have never seen anything
more beautiful,

the Thorn not the only creature
caught by the moth trap

tonight.


Talking of last night, we saw deer, bats, moths (as you can see!), and heard a tawny owl and a barn owl. Might have been nice to see a fox or two as well, but hell you can't have everything. And the sight of the geese flying into the lake to roost was utterly fantastic. Wouldn't have missed that for the world.

This afternoon, I've also had my regular Clarins facial with the oh-so-relaxing Sarah. She's so incredibly soothing that I keep falling asleep. It's great. And I look all glowy and chilled right now. A state of being which I suspect won't last long, but hell it's good while it does.

Tonight, Lord H & I are off to see "Whipping it Up" in Woking (or should that be "Whipping it Up in Woking"?) - never say we don't do culture, missus. And it should be a laugh - a farce about the government with Richard Wilson. You can't really go wrong. One hopes.

Oh, and I've just finished Henry Shukman's poetry collection, In Doctor No's Garden. There are two or three stunningly good poems in it, but I'm not convinced by the rest. Too many words, my dear Mozart (or some such phrase) ... but what do they mean? Really, if you want the energy, electricity and literary style I think Shukman was going for, you're best off with the incredibly good Neil Rollinson. Every time. Hush my mouth.

Today's nice things:

1. Counselling
2. Writing
3. The theatre.

Anne Brooke
Anne's website

Wednesday, 05 September 2007

Close writing and close reading seems to be what we've been talking about in the comments trails of the last couple of posts, and this from Writer Girl [WW's Shika] resonated particularly:

I think I first discovered the power of individual words in a story when I began to translate parts of novels from French into English... The translater has to find the right combination of words that will provide the correct meaning, rhythm and flow to the sentence. The writer does this without having an original script to work from. My question to you is this: do agents and publishers, with their eyes on the bottom line, appeciate this? Or is story and saleability the only thing that matters? I really wonder.

My experience of booktrade people is that they do care, a lot, as anyone who's had a line-edit by a good editor will tell you. But beyond that they may not be best placed to do the kind of close teaching that's needed to turn okay close writing into terrific writing. And, as always, they see it in terms of market: the kind of writing they want to put on Faber's list is different from the kind they want for category fiction, though both must be good for their purpose. Story (arc?) has to be paramount though...

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Wednesday 5 September 2007:

(This is yesterday's blog, which I'm posting so David can see if it works! Sorry about the confusion ...)

I must say I actually enjoyed “Gavin & Stacey” on TV last night – it had some jokes in it for once, though there were still the weird, unrealistic parts. Not as good as “Outnumbered” of course, which was as utterly and subtly off the wall as ever. Astonishing how much I like it, even though I hate children. Must be that it almost makes children seem like real people. No! Surely not, we cry … everyone knows they’re aliens from the Planet Zog.

Anyway, another day spent tidying up the website at work. Honestly, my eyes will be shaped like a computer screen soon. I was supposed to be going for a coffee with Sally from Student Advice at lunchtime, but she … um … forgot. Sigh. (How memorable am I? Sorry? Who said that …?) I was so looking forward to it too. Had a walk round campus instead to try to reset my eyes – hope it’s worked …

But, to cheer me up, the builders are back doing something to the windows in the building opposite, so that’s fun, and there seems to be a younger contingent at the moment, hurrah! Talking of which, I’d like to offer a belated welcome to Fireman Kelly, my choice pin-up for September, who comes from Essex and has a rather nice bod and the cutest smile in the world. Lovely …

I’m also showing my age – have got a bit of a dodgy hip today, which sometimes happens. So, I’m managing to look both sad and limpy whilst walking. Really, I should have the darn thing done! – and that’s exactly what I’m going to do when I turn 60, ho ho. Not sure you’re allowed new body parts before then. At least not on the National Health.

Tonight, Lord H and I are off to Pulborough Brooks for an evening spent looking for night creatures. Or at least that’s what the events guide tells us. I’m hoping for lots of bats, foxes and deer, and absolutely no moths at all. Of any shape or size. Lord H did wonder earlier in the week if there might be screaming, should a moth appear. From me, that is … But I’m hoping it won’t come to that – provided that I make sure Lord H is always between me and the creatures from the deep. If he isn’t, I may just have to beat one to death with my torch. Which may not go down that well with the warden of course …

Because of all that, we’re having to perform a super-speedy turn-round when we get back from work this evening, as we absolutely must be out of the flat by 6.30pm at the latest. Before if we can manage it. Which is why Lord H got up early today and sorted out a slow-cooker lamb dinner so we can just eat and go. Must say it smelt delicious when I left for work – could have eaten it there and then. Mmm …

Oh, and last night I did manage 500 words to The Bones of Summer, which takes Craig up to his first flashback scene, so all is not lost on the writing front. One hopes.

Today’s nice things:

1. Lunchtime walk
2. Slow-cooked lamb
3. Pulborough Brooks.

Anne's website