A friend has refused to abandon me, instead pushing me to keep trying. I want to give up. It hurts to stare at that blank screen, a screen which filled with a constant flow of words only a matter of months ago. I don’t want to do it, keep sitting there with zero results. This friend is impatient with me, the gradual change from gentle sympathy to ‘Just do something about it and stop whining’ slow but inexorable.

Don’t let me give the wrong impression. My friend has every right to feel frustrated and to try to give me a swift kick in the rear for I can be insufferably pathetic. I know this… I can’t stop it, but I do acknowledge it. Perhaps there is a part of me that quite likes feeling sorry for myself. I don’t want to think that but it could be so. What some people might see as harsh and unfeeling is actually what I need. To be precise, I need someone who isn’t going to gentle me into a happy state of self-pity, but rather chase me until I am cornered and face the fact that I have to do something about this.

For as long as I can remember I have defined myself as a storyteller, a writer. Am I about to let that slip away? I’ll admit it, I came close, but thanks to my friend and a little bit of willpower, I’m going to keep trying.

So, to the tale… It may not be up to what I consider my usual standards but I hope you will take something from my efforts, even if it is only a sense of superiority *chuckle*. I only ask one thing – whatever you do, don’t pity me. I’m excellent at that and need no help! Instead, maybe leave a note about your experiences of writer’s block and tips on breaking the wall down, if you have some.

Bright Blessings, Mojo

TWW Entry

The slide had been gradual. She couldn’t be precise about its onset, but the red dress had been her wake-up call. Naked in her bedroom, Anna stared into the glass, bought in her teens. She smiled, remembering its purchase, the uncertain looks from friends and comments asking if she was certain about putting it in the bedroom. Her reply had been constant and precise.

“I want it where I can see myself at my most vulnerable, naked from the shower or from sleep.”

There had never been a clear answer, but she knew about the pitying looks and shakes of the head, shared when they thought she couldn’t see.

She’d been well taught, her mother a constant source of strength and pride. One line always came to the fore when Anna’s mother swam up from her memories, the woman passed to the great cake shop in the sky far too soon. ‘Anna, you are beautiful, in whatever form you choose and let no-one put their prejudices where they can blind you to that truth.’

Highly intelligent, strikingly beautiful, bubbling with wit and joie de vive, Anna’s educational years had been hell. Like many before, and so many who would come after her, food had become a comfort. She learned to abandon her slender shape and sculpted cheekbones, sinking them beneath layers of fat where they did not threaten. Slowly, as her weight increased, so did her social circle. A fat girl was allowed to be smart; she was no threat to boyfriends of the dimbos.

Ten years of fat had settled heavily across her heart, her doctor finally giving her an ultimatum, the food or death. As slowly as she had gained it, she shed it, the beautiful face of her teenage years surfacing and revealing a maturity which seemed to reassure those women who had once feared her. She allowed herself to once more swim with dolphin-like grace and speed, to run with the sleek power of a cheetah and to dance.

Dancing had been the love of her life, her one desire to be a ballerina. Her mother had told her constantly that It was possible and she had believed it with all her heart; until the day her dance teacher had asked her not to come because she couldn’t bear to see the other girls laughing at the fat girl who wanted to be a prima ballerina. Now she had it back. She knew a career with the national ballet company was out of reach, but she could train, become a professional dance teacher. Entry into a salsa competition had necessitated the purchase of a new dress, the red dress, her epiphany dress.

She glanced at the dress, hanging on the back of the door inside its plastic protection. To her it looked like a condom covering the one thing which could impregnate her with her worst nightmare, doubt. She had never doubted in her life, always aware of the better choice in any given situation. Until that morning she had never known a second of uncertainty, and then she’d slipped into the red dress and looked into the mirrored box of a changing room. Staring back at her from every angle was a woman she didn’t recognize. A woman with not an ounce of fat on her body, a supermodel with a fake white smile and hair straight out of a L’Oreal advert, wrapped in a red dress. A red sheath of binding, compressing her natural shape, her desires, into a sausage-skin which would bulge and burst with glorious abandon if only given the chance.

She’d bought the dress, wandered home in a daze and stood before the mirror ever since. Well, with one minor stop on the way, but that could wait. For now she was content to stare at her hip-bones carving through alabaster skin, at a belly almost concave in its efforts to not exist. She gazed at the skin of her neck, a marble white column without a line to its name. A quick shift of focus and she could take in the softly swelling breasts above that shrinking stomach, breasts which had never quite given in, which attracted men with a beelike devotion, breasts responsible for the plastic surgeon brochures on her coffee table.

That last thought made her cast her eyes to the ceiling, wondering if her mother could see her, hear her as she spoke.

“Oh mum, I’m so sorry. I forgot who I was, when I was truly me. I thought I had to hide, comply with those prejudices you warned me about. Do you recognize her?” Anna gestured to the leggy stick creature in the glass, “I don’t and I want me back. I hope you can see that I finally understand.”

Anna dumped herself onto the bed and reached for the square, gaudily pink box she had left there. A box she’d picked up on her way home. A box she had at first hugged guiltily to her chest, but now flung open with joyous relief. As she lifted out the first jewel-like bun, glistening with chocolate decadence, she smiled and spoke to the world at large.

“Let’s see if a fat girl can dance.”

(Gill 27/5/10)

As I may have mentioned, not that it was on my mind or anything,  I’ve had a serious case of writer’s block. On more than one occasion, I’ve been convinced I would never be able to write anything again. Not a great feeling for a writer, as I am sure you can appreciate.  It’s finally over! It feels so good to be able to say I’ve started writing a story, and it ain’t half bad. How did this miracle occur? Let me tell you a story…

Every day I would sit before my screen, fingers poised over keyboard… and nothing would happen. I can’t honestly think of anything more disheartening for me than that moment of realisation that it isn’t going to happen, again.  A few days ago I was in my room, with a friend. Said friend decided to take a nap whilst I was messing around on Facebook and catching up on general internet stuff. Sitting there in that silent room, only the sound of sleeping breathing around me, I suddenly got the urge to open Word.

Trying desperately not to feel any kind of hope or excitement, I followed my whim. For a fraction of a second the familiar blank in my head asserted itself, but this time there was a rebellion. Foot soldiers rushed forward brandishing verbs, cavalry charged on steeds of nouns and then came the triumphal return. My beloved muse strode onto the field of battle, my knight in shining armour formed of the strongest mettle a writer has, imagination! The block was routed in no time flat and peace restored… If you can call a head buzzing with ideas peaceful!

Ok, I know, all a bit flowery, but hey, my muse is home and I’m not afraid to let him write nonsense occasionally *chuckle* There is some debate as to whether said friend and their sleeping was actually the spur for this significant turn of events, but I’m not getting into that argument. However it happened, why it happened, I really don’t care. All I know is that it happened and I am whole again.

To add to this little piece of joy, I also recieved the first payment for the book which releases this month. The ‘Rendezvous’ anthology is maybe going to surprise some people who think they know me and what I write, but there are others (three ladies in particular spring to mind) who will smile quietly to themselves and hold secret knowledge in their hearts. I hope it does well. Not for monetary reasons (although that is of course nice), but simply because it is my first ‘proper’ book, one with an ISBN # and listings on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

It still doesn’t feel real. I’m not even sure it will feel real when I hold my author copy in my hands, but I promise to post a picture of me and said book as proof that it is coming. For now, you can follow the link at the end of this entry to have a little preview. I hope some of you will buy it. Again, not just for me, but for the other wonderful authors included in the anthology, many of whom I know and respect as talented writers.

Well, I have tales to tell (praise the gods!) so I must away to that ‘other place’. I’ll try to keep you updated with book news as often as possible and maybe even post a little tale for free as you are due one for your patience. Good energy and love going out to all. Talk soon.

Blessed Be

Gill

Rendezvous preview – Clicky!

That italicised part is pretty relevant in relation to the dependence part of my title. Over the years I have learned to rely on myself, stuck to my rule of never depending on others. Now I find myself in confusion. Perhaps unwisely, I allowed my guard down, took a couple of bricks out of the wall and let myself be a little vulnerable. The confusion stems from the fact that being a little vulnerable, being a little supported, felt good. For once I wasn’t fighting everything alone.

However, I also discovered that being open that way is not such a good thing for me. Perhaps it is because I am not used to the idea, but I find it incredibly hard to cope with knowing that I have someone to rely on when I need to. I suspect this new knowledge, juxtaposed with my current plunge into depression, has just been more than my mind can handle. I find myself wondering if I should ever have allowed myself to be vulnerable at all. At the same time I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t. Confusion reigns.

What are your thoughts? Do you allow yourselves to rely on others? Is this a regular thing for you or just occasional? How do you cope with that sense of dependency that comes with reliance? Is it better to rely solely on oneself?  Is coping alone better than turning to another for help? How do you acclimatise yourself to the idea of relying on another person who can’t always be there when you might need them? I’d be grateful for any imput or experiences that you care to share.

Moving along, Domes (well, Dome singular actually) and disappointment go hand in hand. One of my much anticipated Christmas gifts was a copy of ‘Under the Dome’ by Stephen King. Now, anyone who knows me will tell you that my adoration of King verges on scary and he has godlike status in my eyes. I have always said ‘If I could write one story half as good as King’s worst, I could die happy’. Alas…. disappointment had reared its ugly head with the opening of this book.

Usually, from page one, I am enthralled by a King book. His storytelling skills, his fantastically drawn characters and the depth to every tale just drag me in and hold me in his world until I tear myself away, reluctantly. Not this time. I have struggled, since Christmas, to reach page 496. The thought of fighting my way to page 877 is actually making me wince. There is no spirit to this story. It’s like King gave an idea to an up and coming author and left them to it. There is nothing of his usual style in it, at least none that I can find.

Sadly, I don’t actually care why the Dome is there or how it happened. Equally, I have yet to find a single character I care enough about to wonder if they will make it out alive. Even Barbie hasn’t gripped me as I thought he might when I initially encountered his character. The whole tale feels old, heartless and tired, like King was simply grinding out something, anything, to hit a deadline.

How to cope with such bitter disappointment, when an idol falters? Simple enough. Plough through to the end, never read the book again, go back and read something superb, such as ‘It’ and pray that whatever comes next is back on track! I guess even gods have off days…

I guess that’s about all I have to say for now, but I suspect I will be back with more wandering thoughts before too long. This may not be the writing I wish to do, but at least I am putting words on a page! Perhaps I’ll even get something made of the notes I jotted down for the Engagement and Wedding entries for the Accentuate writing contests. Wish me luck!

Blessed Be

Gill

This morning I finally gave in and went to see my doctor. I’ve known something was wrong for a long time, but like many of us, I stuck my head in the sand and ignored it, too afraid to hear that what I feared was true. However, there always comes a point when ignoring a problem is no longer an option and I had reached that point.

To the surprise of no-one, my blood pressure was off the scale. High BP runs in my family, hence the lack of surprise. An accurate reading was impossible due to the fact that I was already upset and agitated, which leads to the main problem. Normally I can cope with my depression, dealing with it without resorting to medication, but not this time.

I’m pretty sure there are a lot of us who know what it is like to burst into tears at the drop of a hat, to feel constantly lethargic, exhausted, miserable and hopeless. After all, depression is one of the most common problems we suffer across the board. Normally I wait for the cycle to turn around and get back on my feet, but this time I haven’t been able to shake it.

There’s lots of reasons, ranging from family and financial worries to troubles with my writing and perhaps the loss of my father hit me harder than I realised. Nothing out of the ordinary, but everything came at once and I think that tipped the scales just a little too far into the black for me to cope. It probably says a lot about me as a person, but by far the worst of any of this has been my total inability to write.

I’ve never had writer’s block, not once. Perhaps I was overdue a bout of it, but I would happily have continued without experiencing it, ever! Opening a document and seeing that blank page, having absolutely nothing to put on it, has been terrifying. The best way I can describe it is to say that it has felt like a vital piece of me has been excised, leaving a gaping hole filled with terror. Maybe that sounds overdramatic, but I really can’t put it any better.

Everyone says, ‘Just write. It doesn’t matter what, just write.’ I’m here to tell you they are wrong, at least for me. In a fit of desperation, I sat in front of a friend’s computer (thinking that maybe a change of screen might help too) and I forced words onto a page. When I looked over what I had written (and I use the word lightly), it hurt more than if I had written nothing at all. I had managed a measly three pages and every one was filled with trite, generic drivel which was far more depressing to see than a blank page. There was nothing of me in that writing, no spark of the writer I am. All the exercise did was reinforce the idea that my writing ability had left me, permanently.

Maybe today is the turning point. Maybe today, having sat here and typed these words to share with you, I have turned some corner and I’ll be allowed to write something with meaning, something with ‘me’ in it. I think there comes a ‘point de non-retour’ where you either (to use a favourite phrase of someone I know) ‘Man up’ or you wimp out. Terrified as I am, I refuse to give up. I don’t know if I will ever write anything worthwhile again. I don’t know if I will find the answers to my troubles. I don’t know if I will ever find the happiness I seek.

What I do know is…. I won’t be a quitter. Yes, it hurts and I’m struggling and I’m leaning on other people (which I am not good at), but I’m still here and I am still fighting. Some days, it feels impossible and I crumble, but there is always someone there to pick me up and offer help, even if I don’t take it with the grace I should (for which I apologise).

So I’ll keep climbing the mountain, clinging on by my fingernails at times, striding out with confidence at others, but always going forward, even if only by a millimeter! Maybe I’ll document it all in this blog and one day it’ll turn into a self-help book, who knows! For now, I’ll just say thank you for your patience, thank you for your help and stay tuned for the next episode.

Blessed Be

Gill

Instead, I played a game. An RTS which frustrates and amuses me by turns. I spend most of my time screaming at the darn thing because I prefer to blame an inanimate object for my incompetence. Then I have some sort of breakthrough, finish a level or similar and all is sweetness and light…. until the next level throws me through a loop and I’m back to cursing out a lump of metal (otherwise known as a pc).

Which leads me sideways into today’s post… When I get fed up and frustrated, be it with a game, people, writing or life in general, I reach for my music collection. I confess immediately, my music collection is far larger than it has any right to be, but I can never have enough music. It is second in passion to writing alone. Strangely enough, I do not listen to music when I write. Mainly because I cannot help but sing along… which is not condusive to writing and concentration!

I do get inspired by music though. Those of you who have wandered the site a little, will have come across the free story, Riders on the Storm. Anyone who knows anything about me will know that I am a fanatic when it comes to The Doors. Both the music and Morrison’s lyrics conspire to ensnare my soul. Be warned though, if I am playing The Doors… stay far away from me. It means I am seriously depressed and need them to get me out of it!

Throughout my life, music has inspired stories. An instrumental gives completely free rein when it comes to the imagination. No two people will see the same thing when they listen to a piece of music, which makes anything that comes to your mind pretty unique. Writer’s block can be a serious problem, and I am not suggesting this as a cure, but all of us feel totally uninspired from time to time. Next time it happens to you, try putting some music on, letting it wash over you and see what stories appear in your head.

What music do I like? All types, seriously, across the spectrum, but I do have exceptions and they lead me to another point. I have never understood people who claim to ‘hate’ (a much overuseed word) a particular type of music… when they have never tried it! I dislike rap (aside from Eminem, but I’m not sure if he counts these days), what now passes for R&B, and manufactured bands who don’t write their own music and were put together simply because they were pretty enough to appeal to a particular demographic.

The same can be said for books, or particular authors. Like many others, I profess my dislike of ‘Twilight’ (waits for the horrified gasps to die down), but I have made a point of finding out about the book before giving my opinion. I’m sorry, (Actually… I’m not) but what I read was badly written, boring, cliched and clearly written by someone more interested in sharing their personal fantasy than with any respect for the craft of writing. I admit, I couldn’t get past more than a handful of pages (my brain couldn’t cope with the drivel) but I did try and that is my point.

Don’t go with the masses because you want to fit in. If you have tried something and don’t like it, you have every right to say so. Stand up and be proud of your opinions and the fact that you have no urge to be one of the herd.  Did I mention….? Dan Brown writes garbage too *wink*

Now that I have upset two-thirds of my audience, I’ll leave you with a peaceful link, to one of my favourite soothing pieces of music <— Clicky

Bright Blessings

Gillian

If I’m honest, I’m not really a comedy writer. Occasionally I’ve written humourous pieces, but they tend not to be my best. I take pleasure in writing silly poems, but more for the joy of finding rhyming words than for the humour I create. Long, long ago, I wrote a take on Big Brother which involved a group of characters from the wrestling pantheon which wasn’t too bad, but very niche in appeal. I remember clearly laughing hysterically over it, especially when my eldest daughter began helping me write it. A lot of fun, but not really my forté.

However, I love to read comedy, admiring all those who have the funny gene in abundance, but please – make it intelligent. Yes, of course I laugh at purile jokes and prat-falls, but if I really want to laugh, make it clever and preferably based around word-play. Give me Stephen Fry and Terry Pratchett over any other comic genius you can name. Stephen (all hail) plays with the language, caresses it and shapes it into things which reduce me to tears of ecstatic laughter. Terry (all hail) is probably considered a fantasy writer by most, but it is his humour, his love of words, his use of them in new and unexpected ways, his wonderful puns and sideways jokes which put him so high in my personal pantheon.

Having Death uttering the immortal line “I could murder a curry” is nothing short of genius. Yes, it is obvious. Yes, it would be one of those cringe moments if you or I said it, but in the world of the Disc, and coming from Terry’s mind, it works and works beautifully. Stephen has funny in his soul. He can say the most serious of lines, totally deadpan, and still reduce an audience to hysteria, as he intends. Funny runs in his blood, it is natural and good.

This slowly brings me to my point. I am happy, nay, delighted to read funny blogs and posts. A clever line can make my day, but I know my personal limits. Occasionally, if I am unexpectedly inspired, I may write something funny, but for the most part, I steer clear. I know I can rarely produce a funny piece worthy of the time and effort involved in writing it, so I don’t.

Writers are frequently told ‘Write what you know’, but sometimes that pearl of wisdom becomes unrealistic. I know comedy. I know what it is and I know what makes me laugh. Often I know what makes others laugh. I also know I can’t write it, despite knowing so much about it. In this case, I cannot write what I know. Too often I see people writing blogs, attempting funny and failing so badly it is painful to watch. I would love to have Fry or Pratchett’s talent, be able to write in that vein, but I can’t and I won’t attempt to emulate it.

My advice?  Acknowledge what you know but cannot do. Save yourself the time, effort and looming humiliation. Learn what you are good at and stick with it. The occasional flashes of inspiration will be all the sweeter when they come.

Hving dispensed that nugget of wisdom, I’m off to try and not die in my game, but I shall leave you with something which makes me giggle every time. I promise, it’s not taxing, just incredibly funny. All hail the god that is Stephen Fry! <— Clicky!

Bright Blessings

Gillian

Things like rain. We are so fond of complaining about rain. It’s grey and miserable and depressing and we hate getting wet. Why? When I was a kid, I loved rain. A rainy day meant splashing in puddles, watching two drips race each other down a window pane and the deliciously tactile joy of mud. Rain meant soaked feet, mud splashed up my clothes, hair plastered to my skin and the unequalled delight of turning my face up to the sky and drinking in ice-cold drops. Rain meant the deep concentration of attempting to walk between the raindrops, it meant oil-slick rainbows in puddles and real ones when the sun broke through.

Rain is a good thing. Rain makes mirrors of roads, inspires awe as it comes down so hard that it bounces straight back up. Rain makes flowers glisten with shimmering drops and whispers under car tires. Rain washes the world clean, it sings in rivers and thunders over falls. Rain is beautiful, life-giving and essential and yet we deny it, preferring to complain about being wet and depressed.

Turn your thinking around. Reclaim your inner child and be thankful for rain. Go out, get soaked, jump in puddles, splash your kids, your partner, and be thankful for everything we are given naturally by this beautiful world. Be thankful for the small things, for the cool breeze on a hot day, the persistent weed which suddenly develops stunning flowers, the bird which sings outside your window, the strange gifts offered by your child (yes, it may be a muddy worm, but to them it is a precious gift, offered with love and you should receive it as such).

Take note of the world around you and be thankful that you have the the ability to use all of your senses to experience it. If you are still not thankful, watch this video (and thank you to my writer friend, Maggie Ray, who originally drew my attention to it) and ask yourself the same question….

Are you going to finish strong? Or are you going to give up, forget thankfulness and wallow in the ‘I can’t’ and ‘But what if’ mentality so many resort to?

Today I spent hours with two of my daughters. We did nothing, but talk and watch funny things on the net. I am thankful for every one of those moments. I’m thankful that we share a sense of humour and I am thankful that I have everything I need to enjoy my live. Not everything I want, but every single thing I need.

Wherever you are and whatever you are doing today, I hope you are thankful because you have everything you need. Enjoy your life and remember to let out that child once in a while.

Bright Blessings

Gillian

The first belongs to Michelle (Michy) Devon. Michy is a constant source of inspiration to writers everywhere. Despite her personal health issues, she finds time to run an amazing writers forum (Accentuate writers – yep, plugging it again!), collects short story submissions, gets them to the right judges, collects and publishes the winning information and then gets those stories published in a series of anthologies (more details here), runs the Unsent Letters website (here), writes, supports, advises, edits, runs a home, takes care of a family and apparently still finds time to sleep… although I think she may be fibbing about the sleeping!

Michy’s blog can be found here and she discusses both writing and life in general. Always interesting, often amusing and touching, Michy’s blog is one of my most frequent stops around the net. I hope you’ll visit too.

The other post belongs to Lindsay Maddox. Lindsay is one of the authors featured in the first Elements anthology. More information about her fiction writing can be found at her site.  Lindsay also possesses a wicked sense of humour and this shines through in her blog, Silly Mom Thoughts. Always witty, often emotional and frequently sleepless, Lindsay’s blog takes us through the joys and trials of being a mom to four young children, including the latest adventures of her newest additions, twin boys, Y and Z (just nicknames, I assure you!). Any parent and especially new moms, should take a moment out of their day to read Lindsay’s musings because it normally makes you realise that it either ‘Isn’t so bad’ or ‘Yes, someone else is going through it too!’

Those are my picks for this week. If you visit, drop them a line and tell them what you loved (or, heaven forfend, loathed) about their blogs. I’m off to deal with the washing before settling to some serious editing.

Bright Blessings

Gillian

A few years ago, if I needed to know what poisons are undectectable at an autopsy, (for story purposes, honest!) I’d have to go to the library or search out some friends in the medical profession. Today, I just open up my browser and Google. Virtually any piece of information I need can be found at the click of a button.

This is, of course, fabulous but it has changed the way I write. I no longer need to leave the house to research information. I don’t need to call up someone I haven’t spoken to for a long time, reconnecting with them, to gain their insider knowledge. The chances are, should I require actual human input, it will come via a conversation on msn.

My local library is small, very small, but once I would have gone there to use their reference books, as would many others. Today, knowing they are unlikely to have the information I need, I would probably only go if my internet was unavailable. When I speak to people I know, very few of them can remember the last time they actually checked books out of their local library. The world has moved on, as a certain gunslinger might say.

There is pleasure in holding an actual book, turning real pages and huddling under the covers with the comfort of the familiar story or the excitement of the new tale. Books have now become something we treat ourselves to, a luxurious pleasure to indulge ourselves with. Books no longer come to mind first when we need information, not whilst we have access to the internet. Surely this indicates that stories, wild tales and strange imaginings aer the meat of book sales today? We can hope.

Although a physical book will never, for me, be replaced by the internet, I don’t see this shift as a bad thing. Once upon a time, paper was a precious commodity, horded by the few who could afford it. Books were precious, treasured, handled with adoration and joy. We lost that feeling when paper became freely available and everyone could own books.

Yes, it is possible to read books online, on various technical marvels you can hold in your hand, but it will never be the same. A return to thinking of physical books as things to treasure, to care for, indulge in and love is a move in the right direction. Books are special, certain stories remain with us for the rest of our lives, and to hold that much-loved, well-thumbed book in your hands, to curl up with it whilst the rain beats against the window and to lose yourself in those pages is a moment of bliss which can be gained no other way.

Is there a writer in this world who truly thinks reading a copy of their book online, even for the first time, can replace the emotion of holding that book in their hands, an actual, physical copy, smelling of new ink and that unique new book smell? I don’t think so. I hope not. Maybe we should ask the newly published authors in the Elements of the Soul anthology which they would prefer.

I’m off to finish  a story I hope will be included in a future anthology and I can’t wait to hold that book in my hands.

Bright Blessings

Gillian

Why do I write? Because I have to. It really is that simple. If I didn’t write, all the story ideas would get backed up in my head and I would spontaneously combust! But I want to look at  the actual questions Michy posed.

When did you know, really know, for the first time, that you were a writer, born to be one? – I almost covered this in my bio. As soon as I realised the power of words, I knew I was going to be a writer, and I’m talking at around 5 or 6 years old. Ok, let’s back up and look at it another way. By the age of 5 I was telling stories to anything that would listen. At that age, I may not have completely understood the idea of ‘being a writer’, but I surely knew that I was a teller of tales, a bard. The words flowed endlessly and stories appeared around every corner. So perhaps I knew I was a storyteller first, and the idea of being a writer probably didn’t fully take root for another couple of years.

Tell us about some of the very first things you wrote  – Again, mentioned in my bio, The Blob is the first complete short story I remember writing. I am guessing, but I don’t think I was any older than seven as I am pretty sure it was written as a piece for my first junior school teacher. I know many stories drifted by in the interval, but the next one I remember clearly was a mobster story based around a girl and her man, named ‘Guy’. That was my first attempt at a novel and probably still exists in a damp and discarded box somewhere!

Tell us  what you loved about writing before you knew anything about writing – I loved the worlds words could create. I loved the feel of words in my mouth and in my head. I loved watching a blank page fill with new and exciting ideas. I loved to write for the pure pleasure of the experience.  I loved shaping nothing into something with words.

Tell us what you still love about it [writing] now that you know more – All of the above but with a deeper love and greater intensity. I have never lost that original adoration for words and the ability to put them together to make stories.

When you look back at some of your first writings, what is it that attracts your attention and how has your writing changed since then? – One of the constants in my writing has been,  and continues to be,  my need to involve the reader, to immerse them in the world I create as deeply as I am.  I want them to believe as strongly as I do. As my own worst critic, that part of writing is the one I believe I am good at, and always have been. My writing is more mature, more experienced now, but that urge remains the most important.

Take us back in time to the beginning of your writing passion and show us what it looked like way back then, before queries, before rejections, before you submitted or made a penny – This is an extract from an extremely old attempt at a novel (we’ll gloss over just how old!). It makes me wince to read it now, although the story holds up. The writing, however, does not… so much dialogue!

He gripped my hand again and started for the door. I hung back a second forcing him to wait.

“David? Thank you. It means a lot to me.”

To my amazement, he actually smiled briefly.

“Ah get away wid ya lassie. It’s for Mark I’m doing it.”

As Glen and I walked back to the bikes I smiled to myself.

“What’s the smile for Hellcat?”

I think David is a big softie under all that bluster.”

“I wouldn’t want to lay good money on it girl!”

We were laughing as we came up to Clare and Kenny. I explained about David and Clare smiled.

“He’s the same with me. I think he’s shy. Doesn’t know how to handle women. The only ladies in his life never answer back and he knows just exactly how to tinker with them to his satisfaction.”

Take us back to when you wrote simply because you were a writer. Back when being a writer was who you were more than it was something you did – Being a writer has always been who I am. It has never been about something I do. I have never lost my passion for writing, and gods favour me, I never will. There are too many stories to tell, so many listening ears. I may have to find the fountain of youth or become a vampire in an attempt to tell all the stories I have in my head.

Now you must excuse me, I do believe there’s a story in that last sentence!

Bright Blessings

Gillian