16.45 hrs.

An artist in a room somewhere in the northern borough of the working class heavy industrial region of Universo Collunteen.

'I'm lying on my bed and regarding the mirror on the window sill. The red berries glow on the Rowan Trees across the road. Doves flap about in the breeze. The sky is milky grey.

My annual rejection letter from the hip Naze Vale Gallery in central Pointeso lies torn on the carpet. I think the odds are something like 150-1 of getting in. perhaps I'll try again next year.
I'm wondering if my Universo Collunteen postcode had a negative impact on my application? Probably not.

I can hear the downtown Universo factories striking up now. I'm on the late shift and will be in automation in two hours from now.

I've got to somehow try to summon up the energy and make my way towards the door. I'll grab myself a sausage roll and a bottle of lucozade from the shops before I leave.

I feel mildly aggressive now if the truth be told. I can see the universe in my carpet.'

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'My eyes are heavy...or should that be eyelids? I've been on shift at The Werkwell Gallery this evening to promote our latest show of young sensations The sirens Were Absent.

We had a great turn out to the preview as usual. It was kinda neat because it opened on the same weekend as the Flux Nova festival on Wishloft Common.

We've had a few dealers book in for viewings next week and have sold the majority of the installations to the exclusive Maxwood Estate.

It has become something of a mission for our gallery to aggressively pursue progressive contemporary art of the highest quality with a focus on that young emerging hipster chique.

We are based within the core of the Pointeso art scene.'

Marcia Greyloft. Curator for Werkwell Gallery.



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A post on my Young Adult influences

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No, it seems EVERY blog post is limited to 255 characters; still, that's more than you get on Twitter.

For £35 I hope I can post the structure and contents of my novel somewhere other than uploaded work for review (as this is not for review)

How does one write about terror? I don’t mean the delicious spine tingling sensation evoked by the thriller or horror story, the literary equivalent of Halloween or the latest upside-down turbocharged fairground ride. I’m thinking that raw state of mind when logic goes out the window and with it any trace of pride or self-consciousness, when body and brain conspire towards a sole objective: survival. Even Verdi’s glorious Dies Irae doesn’t do justice to the torment.

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Keeping my beer hand warm while grasping a glass of Sixpenny Handley bitter ( the village where the microbrewery is situated, not the price) took determination in January. There is only room for six people in the tiny bar attached to the brewing shed, so it’s strictly for refilling-the drinking area is in the yard outside. Note to self: Take heed of the regulars and bring a “Beer glove” next time.

The standard Best Bitter is refreshingly well-bodied with a good depth of taste, while their Sixpenny Handley Gold,their summer ale, is well worth a try if you enjoy something lighter and brighter . Adding weight and colour to the range is Sixpenny Handley Black , a honey porter.

Sixpenny Handley Tap serves it own beers strictly 4.30- 6.30pm Wednesday to Friday and 11.30-1PM on Saturdays. My advice: don't deny your tastebuds if you prefer real beer straight from the brewery, but best to try a summer night or come equipped . Oh, and Wednesdays is cheese night so bring something to throw into the pot. There is always a shortage of crackers apparently, but then you need to be a bit crackers to stand outside in winter and drink beer .

How to stop the distractions...

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With another choral concert in the offing, I’ve been conscious recently of my far-from-perfect pitch. Alas, it’s not just musically I’m challenged, but I’ve been struggling with pitching my fiction since an agent workshop around eighteen months ago when I failed dismally to reduce my oeuvre to three sentences, despite my novel being in a not-at-all-desperate state of health. Although I’ve improved dramatically since then, I still find pitching difficult

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Show, don’t tell is something of a cliché in creative writing parlance yet, when I first encountered it, it felt like a paradigm shift. I’d been writing on and off all my life without knowing there were any rules about it, and I embraced this one with gusto. My stories unfolded through a series of scenes, generously seasoned with dialogue and real-world interactions. I aspired to make my colours vivid and my smells pungent and anything masquerading as an information drop became taboo. My writing wasn’t particularly lyrical, and I learned to love cutting the bits that weren’t earning their keep, but overall I wanted the reader to get so close to my characters it was as if they’d taken up residence in their bodies.


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