Before Halloween there was …


Overshadowed by US show,

Slowly waning yet you know…

Remembered in my child’s eye,

The homemade doll, the painted guy,

The wheelbarrows in which he dwelt,

The schoolboy hands in search of gelt.

All running to the shop to buy

The fireworks gleaned from crafted guys.

Pennies gleaming in the bowl,

Rockets wedged within a hole.

Bonfires burning, guy discarded,

To the flames he’s now departed.

Till again small hands will forge,

An image of old England’s gorge.

(November 5th is Guy Fawkes Night in England. For my non English readers it remembers a failed plot to blow up the houses of parliament in which children made images of Guy Fawkes (the ring leader) and paraded around with them prior to Nov. 5th. collecting money for their efforts, used  to buy fireworks. The guys would then be ceremonially burnt on a communal or backyard bonfire to the accompaniment of fireworks, mimicking the hidden barrels of gun powder exploding.)


Sometimes a story just gets a life of its own!


I’ve never been one to plan stories, it just doesn’t work that way for me (and it’s definitely no fun). Rather stories seem to grow and develop a life of their own. It’s as if the story is already out there somewhere and I’m just opening the window to set it free onto the page.

Don’t get me wrong I also suffer the inevitable “writer’s block” sometimes when the damn catch on the window seems jammed and the weather’s too dark and cloudy to even catch a glimpse through the pane. But then, sooner or later, it always loosens, the glass swings open and I’m invaded by the most inspiring scenes and ideas and I just can’t wait to get to my laptop.

My present book seems to be the most “revelatory” yet. New characters introduce themselves in my head as I wake, parading their own personal diversity. I ponder and realise how well they weave into the plot, adding depth and emotion, so that later I sit, tissues in hand when a plot twist reveals their demesne.¬† Research (tedious as it tends to be) brings to light plot options, small details, and opens me up to places I’ve not been before in my writing. I wake each morning as if seeking to continue reading a book I’m wrapped up in, but it isn’t written yet! Reading and writing become one, with an irresistible urge to turn the next page, start the next chapter. My “overactive imagination” as my teachers called it has found it’s niche.

I’ll miss it when it’s finished (except that when the real work begins, editing, revising, condensing etc.) However I already have a tittle for a possible sequel lol! Meanwhile I’m in danger of becoming a recluse!