More than Writers

  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 ...

  Life is the source of inspiration for our writing but sometimes life knocks us off course and puts us in such a spin that writing is nearly impossible. A phone call out of the blue in late January was such an event. It shattered my peace and spun my head into chaos. I have struggled to think straight since.    Last month I was rescued by the lovely  Annmarie  Miles, when I admitted at the last minute that I was unable to think clearly or write. Thank  you, Annmarie , you did an excellent job. This month my blog is  being submitted l ate and my mind still a bit scrambled.    It’s not just the blog that has been affected. My plans to move forward with the Myka stories have also suffered : n o marketing plan has been launched ;  no social media campaign was embarked on. Instead of putting myself out there, I sighed and cried and prayed. But I have not given up .  Myka the fictional dog is still wagging her tail and hoping I’ll finish...

I had been sitting at my desk, trying to write a story about Thomas, the disciple. I was feeling sorry for the man who seemed to be remembered mainly for his doubt. I had done my background reading and prayed about it, but still nothing was coming, so I prayed again. When I say ‘prayed’ I was actually telling God that I was struggling and it would be far more effective if he just dictated what I had to say, plus no one would really be interested in my writing and the book would probably never get published anyway. As I waited in silence, it dawned on me that I was sounding like a spoilt child who didn’t want to do her homework, so I asked for his forgiveness. He had put this project on my heart and so I’d do it. It’s strange how he hardly ever responds as I would expect him to. This time two Bible verses embedded themselves in my mind. ‘God loves a cheerful giver.’ That hit hard. I was cheerful enough giving financially and timewise to other people but I wasn’t cheerful about givin...