More than Writers

It’s been a great year for daffodils. I love the way they brighten the roadsides, popping up for a few weeks to surprise and delight the motorist. Grand displays herald spring in local parks and small bunches decorate our homes. They lift our spirits and mark a change of season. What is not so great is the few weeks afterwards when the bright display is replaced by dead flowers and drooping leaves which gradually turn yellow. When that happens in my garden I find I want to move on, to get rid of the foliage. I’d really like something else of beauty to take its place. I tell myself not to be in such a rush. This stage is important, the dead flower can be removed but the leaves need to be left to die off naturally, until they are completely dry. If the leaves are removed too soon, the bulb is stopped from taking in important nutrients in preparation for next year’s blooms. If I don’t wait future growth is impacted.  I realise I feel a little like this with my writing. I write alongsi...

While I’ve been navigating my way through being my husband’s carer, time to write has been almost non-existent even though I believe deep down inside me there are things God wants me to record. Each morning I try to spend time with God before the day’s essential routines begin. For some time now the word ‘manna’ has inspired my prayers and my journalling.  The Israelites wandered around in the unknown, much like I feel now, and were provided with what they needed for the day. Manna was apparently nourishing, bread-like food that tasted like ‘wafers made with honey’ (Ex. 16:31). It would rot by the next day if they tried to keep it, but there would always be a fresh supply in the morning. My prayer each day has been, ‘Please give me the manna I need for today.’ By that I mean wisdom, energy and strength to negotiate the ever-changing and increasing demands of coping with dementia and serious ill-health – because what works today may not work tomorrow. I cannot hold rigidly to any ...

  Down here, below the equator, schools are blasting through their summer term which is the beginning of their school year, heading for autumn.   The leaves aren’t turning quite yet, but as I walked through the playing fields of Rondebosch Boys High School, I could see that things have changed. The fields have been marked out for sports and Wednesday afternoons are now a riot of cheering, amid the chaos of multiple games of cricket, tennis and hockey (it doesn’t appear to be seasonally dependent here) while rugby coaching continues and some equivalent of cycling proficiency goes on.   The middle field has been marked out in white as an athletics track and I watched grandparents and grandchildren engage in mock ‘races’ there at the weekend. Most fascinating to me is the space for the shot-put.   I originally thought they must be coaching hammer throwing, but the lack of safety net suggests that’s not the case.   I’m sure the locals are heaving a sigh of relief as...

  It’s nearly time! Time for a few days of being with other writers, swapping news, gaining inspiration and doing writerly things under the guidance of Adrian and Bridget Plass, in the beautiful surroundings of Scargill. The I can hardly wait. The Scargill community is caring and welcoming, the countryside around is breathtaking and the chapel awe-inspiring in its holiness.  This year, my husband, Ken, is coming with me. It marks a departure from ‘getting away from it all’ but to share this special place with him is a privilege. We will have a room for the disabled and he will trundle around with his Zoom wheeled walker and I shall not have to worry about him being home alone. I’m sure he will enjoy the talks and laughter too, so maybe that will stir up his his early leanings towards writing more than the church newsletter. We are so blessed to be able to do this. I would urge any writer to have times devoted to nothing but writing, whether it’s connecting with other scribbler...

 When I worked in the real world, long before I was an author, I met many people from different backgrounds and each had a name. There was the lady who had married twice - her maiden surname was Robertson as was the surname of both her husbands, so she was Mrs Robertson or Robertson or Robertson. There were the people who made up what I called my dark rainbow, Mrs Brown, Miss Gray, Mr Black, Dr Green and Dr Orange and the fun names, Mrs Bird, Miss Snowball and Dr Bean.  Then I set to thinking about the importance of names in fiction.There are many fictional names that have become pivotal, Scrooge has become synonymous with meanness, Fagan is known as a thief and Gandalf acknowledged for his wisdom. When I was choosing a name for my lead detective in my books I chose the name Hunter. I felt this reflected his job seeking out criminals in the pages of my novels. However, that name in itself was chosen by chance. My husband and I were driving through Edinburgh to visit my mother....

  I’m now into the fifth year of running a local creative writing group — a role that is delightful and rewarding in equal measure. As the group has become more established, my challenge has shifted to finding fresh and engaging aspects of writing for us to explore together. I usually introduce a topic for discussion, followed by prompts to trigger some writing, which often produces excellent results both in our sessions and in between meetings. Recently, we explored the sonnet and its structure — quite advanced stuff! — and it prompted some of the group to create their own modern sonnets. That session was sparked by this description from Scottish poet Don Paterson: As poetry moved slowly off the tongue and onto the page, the visual appeal of an approximately square field of black text on a sheet of white paper must have been impossible to resist. Which is what the sonnet is, first and foremost: a small, square poem … a sonnet is a paradox, a little squared circle, a mandala ...