A Very British Writer Blog Tour

I don’t usually go in for blogging round robins or memes.  But Vivienne Tuffnell asked nicely and I was needing a break between two projects, both equally unappealing, so I figured, why not? 

It’s about being a British author – a concept I confess had never occurred to me before.  About looking at whether national characteristics (whatever they may be) influence our ‘work’. Now, see, I don’t really feel of myself as British, or English, or anything really, so I’m on a sticky wicket (ho ho) from the start.  But I’ll give it a whirl. There were questions and I like being asked questions, almost as much as I like ticking boxes.  Click here to read Viv's responses (and do check out her books). 

Carshalton Park - there was a river when I was small.

Q: Where were you born and where do you live now?

A: I was born in Surrey, in a place called Carshalton, which has now been swallowed up by Greater London.  When I look at it with my adult eyes (which is not that often) I see bland suburbia.  It seems so small, so trammelled, so claustrophobic.  But, as a child, I managed to find endless magic. I poked around old Iron Age works, explored grottoes and springs, climbed hills, mapped woods. I saw minute worlds in walls and wasteland, in parks and back gardens. I made myself a small fiefdom in the arms of an apple tree; a cave under the roots of a lilac bush.

Now I live in Dulverton, a small town in the Exmoor National Park in South-West England. It’s wild and really just ridiculously beautiful – a land of echoing moors, steep combes (valleys), tumbling rivers and the crashing sea.  You should visit, you really should.

Q: Have you always lived and worked in Britain or are you based elsewhere?

A: I have mainly lived and worked in England. Apart from a year’s sojourn in the USA. However I have severe travel lust. Both for places inside the British Isles and Ireland and also abroad. 

Q:  Have you highlighted or showcased any particular part of Britain in your books, a town, a city, a county, a monument, well-known place or event?

A: My non-fiction books are, by necessity, universal, not tied to place.  However the Somerset Levels were inevitably an influence on the books written while I lived there – The Natural Year in particular charts a year of living consciously with nature. 

When it comes to fiction, Exmoor is a natural muse.  Both Walker (my shamanic novel) and Samael (the as yet unpublished first part of my YA Angelsoul trilogy) are, in part, extended love poems to Exmoor.  The second part of the trilogy shifts to London, a city I lived in throughout a large part of my twenties and which I also love. 

Q: There is an illusion – or myth if you wish- about British people that I would like to discuss. Many see Brits as ‘stiff upper lip’. Is this correct?

A: What is British?  Britain is a melting pot. It’s a mongrel country on the whole now. I feel that ‘stiff upper lip’ idea is well and truly defunct. It describes a clichéd view of an upper/middle class Britain that no longer really exists.  However, where I live on Exmoor, there is a certain reticence, a pretty well entrenched sense of privacy. People tend just to get on with life; they don’t whine and, when life goes tits-up, they tend to turn quietly to the bottle or just get out the shotgun.  Anything rather than go talk about it.  Psychotherapists don’t tend to set up shop here.

Q: Do any of the characters in your book carry the ‘stiff upper lip’ or are they all British Bulldog and unique in their own way?

A: No. No stiff upper lip, no British Bulldog.  There are some characters who are, reserved, shall we say – the strong silent types…Ruth in Walker and Eden and Zeke in Samael come to mind but then they are, variously, shamans and mages, and those types tend to keep their own counsel.  And my books also contain characters with less savoury characteristics - small-minded racism, sexism and a tendency to domestic violence. Sadly those aren't just prevalent in city life. 

Q: Tell us about one of your recent books.

A: Let me talk about Walker .  I wrote it because a few things collided. I started practicing shamanism and, at the same time, I discovered an amazing place on the Exmoor coast – Culbone – it was just numinous.  On a subsequent visit, I found a small hut offering DIY refreshments and some very old books for sale by a woman who’d lived there which confirmed my conviction that it was seriously magical.

Walker is the story of a teenage boy, Hunter, who nearly dies in a car crash and comes to live on Exmoor with a grandmother he has never met.  It’s a pretty classic quest yarn – on the outside Hunter has to find the lost kashebah, a non-physical temple that can help protect the world’s soul. On the inside, he has to find himself, or – if you like – his own interior kashebah.  That makes it sound a bit worthy and it’s not (at least I hope not).  I’d like to think it’s a fast-moving adventure yarn that just happens to be based on esoteric fact. 

Q: What are you currently working on?

A: Making money to fund my travel habit. *smile*

Q: How do you spend your leisure time?

A: Meditating, exercising, tramping the moor, sitting by the fire musing, listening to music, mind-wandering.

Q: Do you write for a local audience or a global audience?

A: I’d like to think global.  Certainly my non-fiction books have sold all over the world – The Detox Plan was translated into over 20 languages, if I recall (it's now available in an updated e-edition).

Q: Can you provide links to your works?

A: Of course.  The easiest place to find all my books in one place is via my Amazon author page.  As I said before, my fiction titles are still books in search of a publisher – but you can read the first few chapters here and here. 

Q: Who’s next?

A: Ah, I’m not good at picking and choosing.  A lot of people who read this blog are writers, I know, spread across the length and breadth of the British Isles. I’d love to know their thoughts.  If anyone takes this and runs with it, let me know and I’ll post a link to your answers. 

Samael, sequels and Hell on Earth.

Well, truth to tell, there isn’t much good news to impart but hey, you have to stay positive, right?  And I have finally finished Tanit, the sequel to Samael.  I wasn’t sure I liked it as I was writing it but, reading back, yeah, it’s okay. It’s dark, much darker than Samael – more downbeat I suppose.  But then, hey, Samael is in Hell and Gen is in hell on earth.  Which of them is worse off, I wonder? 

As I’ve been editing it, I’ve been thinking about the themes of these books.  What they’re trying to say.  On one hand, they’re typical teen novels, channeling my inner sixteen-year old – full of music, existential angst and that deep yearning for ‘real’ love.  I never set out to make any big claims, never tried to prove any deep points – I just wanted to tell a story.

But they're not just about romantic and sexual love but about love in all its many forms: parental love, deep friendship love, the love between an animal and a human, the love humans have for gods (and maybe vice versa).  And, at its heart, that strange mystical alliance – the deep esoteric love where a man and woman are bonded on all levels, on all planes.  A kind of love that is beyond rare.  A love that is the polar opposite of sweet, kind and squishy - a terrifying, dreadful, cosmos-shaking love. The kind of love that can make or break worlds.  Where lovers become gods. 

Here’s what Gen says (in one of the rare quiet moments when the poor girl isn't lurching from one disaster to another)...

“Why do people want to control those they love? To mould them to some warped idea of perfection?  Then again, I thought, was I really any better? We all have these images of perfection. I had wanted the archetypal mother, loving and nurturing, the kind who cooks supper in a neat apron, who reads bedtime stories. But then, when I thought about Mum, how could she ever be like that?  My beautiful, screwed up mum, who’d started out as a rock siren and ended up as a crazy cowgirl dyke.  And, frankly, that was way cool.  She loved me, bottom line, totally and unconditionally. She had even loved me when I’d tried to sink a knife into her – is there any greater love? 

"And Samael?  He didn’t ever try to change me and he never tried to hide who he was – he showed the good and the bad, without ever trying to pretend, without ever putting a gloss on things. I could hear his voice so clearly in my head.  ‘I’m not a nice guy, love. I’m not sweetness and light.’ But what was he? Really?   I barely knew him yet I felt like he was part of my soul.  No really, I felt him.

I wanted to sit on a beach with him, as the sun fell into the sea’s embrace. I wanted to feel his arms around me, holding me skin on skin, as close as close could be. And then, as the stars came out, I wanted him to make love to me, until we plunged together into the void, joining the constellations in their infinite dance.  I wanted him.  Full stop.”  

From Tanit.

Yup, all very typical teenage yearning.  The book also poses the question – ‘How far would you go for love? What would you sacrifice?’ 

It looks at deeper issues of right and wrong.  What if the thing you wanted more than anything would come at so high a price that the implications would resound, not just through your life but through eternity? 

What if you could have everything your heart desired  – love, wealth, beauty, youth, fame - would you pay the price?  What if that price were your soul? 

Wanna read more?  I’ve plonked the first seven chapters of Tanit (awful title, btw) on Authonomy.  As far as Samael goes, I never did hear back from HarperCollins after they requested the full ms.  The book is hanging around with a couple of other publishers…y’know, the usual stuff.

For anyone’s that interested, Samael has its own blog (a bit neglected of late) and Pinterest board.  Tanit also has a Pinterest board. 

And the third book?  Well, Genevieve will have to sit on ice for the time being as I need some dosh before I can research it.  Cos, see, the action heads out to the desert – the Texan desert.   And you know how I feel about deserts…

Fifty Shades of so what's the problem?

So, while I’m waiting to wash off my fake tan (which, in retrospect, was probably a mistake – I look decidedly weird) I’ve been thinking… about Fifty Shades of Grey. Yes, I know I'm late to the party but everywhere I look it seems like it’s the book (or set of books) that everyone loves to hate.  Ye gods, I haven’t seen so much vitriol slathered all over a novel since, well, Twilight.  And you know what?  I liked Twilight.  So stick that in your pipe and smoke it. :-) 


Anyhow.  I must have been in a bunker or something because I hadn’t even heard of FSOG.  And, when I did, I thought it was some kind of hair dye.  Honestly.  Then I mentioned to Kim (Jewell) that maybe I should dust off poor old Samael (my deeply unwanted YA novel), up the age of the protagonist and make it more sexy and she said, ‘What, like Fifty Shades of Grey?’ and I frowned and she explained so I nabbed a copy. 

‘The writing’s awful,’ she warned. ‘But it’s kinda fun.’  No kidding.  Sure it ain’t high art, great literature, but so fecking what?  It’s a romp.  It’s a great big stupidly ludicrously sexy pile of total trashy nonsense.  It’s huge fun and I’ve been lapping it up, so to speak.  

Is it ‘anti-feminist’?  Does it oppress women?  Nah, I don’t think so, not for one moment.  So the protagonist discovers she rather enjoys being tied up and slapped on the backside?  So what?  Nobody’s forcing her. What is feminist sex anyhow?  Women feeling okay about themselves?  Well, Ana seems pretty sorted actually.  And, as the tale unfolds (and yes, there is some progression; it’s not quite just a series of sex scenes strung together like, er... pearls or fake diamonds – though, has to be said, there ain’t a whole lot of plot involved) it transpires that her ‘dominant’ lover isn’t quite so secure and in control.  He’s seen the other side of the coin, so to speak and, in fact, it's really sweet virginal Ana who wields the whip (sorry). 

The whole thing about BDSM (having known a lot of people who’re into it) is that it’s all consensual.  Nobody does or has done anything they don’t want.  So, really, what’s the problem?  Why’s everyone getting so hot under the collar? Maybe it’s plain sour grapes mixed with wishful thinking – sheer envy that these (fictional) bods are having such a fecking awesome time in the sack (and in the lift and in the car and the kitchen and the restaurant and right across the top of the grand piano and so on and so forth)? 

Then there’s the ‘oh but it’s so unrealistic’ argument.  Like, how come she has a monster orgasm on her first fuck?  And comes at the drop of a word each and every time?  Not to mention the small facts that, a) he’s filthy rich and, b) he has the body of an Adonis and a penis that should be called 'Ever Ready'.  Well, lucky cow is all I can say.  Were it real.


Cos, let’s just remember something here.  This is Not Real Life.  It’s like movie sex:  if it were played out in real time with every realistic squelch and tooth clash and wilting erection and badly timed case of cramp, we’d all be bored flaccid.  Yes, it might all be deeper and more ‘meaningful’ and 'literary' if they were civil servants from Croydon but…yawn.

You know what I think?  I reckon everyone’s just jealous as hell that they didn’t do it; that they aren’t raking in the bucks.  And boy is she raking in the bucks!  Cos half the people bitching about it haven’t even read it.  Sheesh, even a reviewer in a glossy mag hadn’t read it.  She rolled her eyes over the ‘bored housewife’ MC – er, nope – she’s a young student actually.  Yes, it’s neck deep in cliché, yes the writing’s repetitive.  But it kept me reading alright.  So I say, get over yourselves!  If you don’t like that kind of malarkey, the choice is easy – don’t read it.  If, on the other hand, you fancy a harmless frisson or two – then go for it (and go buy yourself a set of Ben Wa balls while you’re at it!). 

Words fail me

Words fail me so often.  It's why I often turn to music. But then, also to image.

There’s a theory that people filter the world through a dominant sense. That, while most of us use all our senses, there tends to be one which comes more naturally, which elbows the others for first place. So we are generally visual, auditory or kinaesthetic in the way we relate to the world.  I first came across this concept when I was taking some post-grad linguistics courses and looking at how our primary sense mode affects learning language. And, on that score I’m highly visual.  I need to see words, as well as hear them.  When I was at junior school we learned French purely by listening to it. I was rubbish.  When we went up to senior school we shifted to learning the old-fashioned way, with books. I flew. Schools could do well by finding out how their pupils perceive the world and adapting learning programmes for them – it would save a lot of heartache.

Anyhow. It’s probably why I dislike the phone so much. I can’t rely on visual clues.  And I hate audio-books with a passion. 

Adrian, on the other hand, is purely auditory. He often barely notices how things and people look. The visual is totally unimportant to him.  He’ll happily listen to spoken word for hours.

Sight is sensual to me. When I write (fiction) I see the scenes playing out as if I were at the cinema. A beautiful image will stop me clean in my tracks, take my breath away – as much as a piece of music, or a single chord, or a note (with all its over and undertones). As much as a a touch, a sensation (affecting not just the place touched but vibrating through body and space); as much as a taste (with all its various subtleties and innuendos). Yeah, I guess I feel all the senses pretty acutely.

But images. I grab them, I hoard them, I sink into them. I have journal upon journal brimming with images, all carefully cut out and pasted.  And every time I write a book I have a mood board, a treasure map of images on the wall in front of me. It’s not so much about how the actual people and places look (because I know that, clear as day, in my mind - I don't need other representations) but about the mood, the feel, the atmosphere of the book.  One of the comments from the editor at HarperCollins who looked at Walker struck home. She talked about a novel having a ‘palette’ and that some of the colours of Walker’s palette didn’t ring true.  And she was right.  I had taken on board early advice from Philip Hensher about the book and included garish day-glo colours into what was always a book of moss and slate, green and grey.  I hadn’t followed my visual eye.  Needless to say, I took out the imposters.

A short while ago I discovered Pinterest. Thanks to Zoe. And oh my! This was what I had been craving. A place to squirrel away all the stunning images I find as I wander the web.  So, if you want to see some of the visual inspiration for my book Walker, take a look here.  If you want to see what was playing in my mind when I wrote my beloved Samael, look here.  Right now I’m back to working on Tanit, the sequel to Samael. It’s proving a tough one to write – but then true love never runs smooth, eh?  And the third one is coming together in images, even if the words are a long way away.

It's a place of dreams. Of beauty and pain. Of other worlds. 

So, yes, I like Pinterest, I really do. Sure, you can follow and be followed, but there isn’t the whole ‘in your face’ thing of other social media. And it seems like their policies are sound and they are (for now, at least) pretty human.  There’s no advertising.  And the Pin button grabs the URL of the place where you find the image, so the artist or photographer gets credit.  As an image resource it’s incredible. Because so far it has tended to appeal to those of a visual bent (the place is crammed with artists, photographers, fashion bods, architects, designers and so on), you don’t get anywhere near the tacky crap you get from the usual Google image search. In fact, sometimes, it’s almost sweetly naïve – for example, tap in ‘lust’ and you get a whole pile of images of shoes and sofas!  


But is it useful? Said a friend. 'Do we really need another form of social media?'  Well. I suppose it depends what you want to do with it. Could you use it as another of marketing for your 'product', she asked. Sure. I see people selling stuff there - jewellery, design, art. But really, use your imagination. If you're, say, a holiday letting business, you could entice with images, not just of the property but of the lifestyle surrounding it.  It's a god's gift if you want to seduce, entrance, attract those with a strong visual sense. Hence all the 'lust' - people make wishlists on Pinterest. And I bet they buy. 

Yeah, I put up a board for my books but I have to say that wasn't really my main reason for joining.  I'm just head over heels in love...with images.  
But then again, I wonder. It's so personal. It's like revealing your soul. Far more than words. I dunno. This might be a short-lived love affair. But for now... it's rather beautiful. 

Anyhow.  How do you perceive the world? If you write, do you use image?  As well as words.  And what are the images that stop you in your tracks?  

Soft Toy Serial Killers

Everyone has an unpretty side. A part they don’t like to admit.  A dark side of the moon.  I can be a crappy person, I really can. I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t like what I see. I’m a crappy mother; I’m a crappy wife. I’m a lousy daughter-in-law; a rubbish aunt; a shitty godmother (whatever possessed them to choose godless me?) and I’m not always the best of friends, no matter how hard I try.  I was a damn good daughter though, and I sometimes think that sucked the goodness and prettiness out of me – it was so damn greedy it left me parched. 

I try, I really try but sometimes I just feel like I’m stretched too thin – pull me a little further and I’ll snap into two and the parts will float away, straggles of skin reaching helplessly towards one another as they vanish into the ether.

But then I suspect other people feel that way too.  And this isn’t a ‘me, me, me’ post – it’s not remotely asking for validation; for comfort.  It’s just an observation. 

And, anyhow, what does it mean, this crappiness?  That we’re not perfect?  Well, what human is?  We’re so quick to judge, so quick to condemn, aren’t we?  Some of us judge ourselves; we all judge others.  And what is it we judge?  Why, surely just our own shadow sides, displayed in other people?  A conversation at Zumba last night showed the point.  Someone I know gets a lot of grief in town – she’s the ‘bad girl’, the ‘transgressor’, the ‘scarlet woman’.  Tongues wag; people turn away, they give her filthy looks. And they are so perfect, right? They are so righteous?  I’m not one for biblical references but, by heck, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”   

I suspect she constellates their shadow – their dirty laundry, their fear.  Jung said that the shadow is the part of us that contains our secrets, all the forbidden feelings and ways of behaviour that lie hidden from our consciousness.  The shadow comes to us most strongly in dreams, as the frightening “other” – the harlot, the murderer, the thief, the zealot, the overbearing teacher, the pathetic wimp, the whining child, the down-and-out.  The shadow carries everything we push aside in waking conscious life, all those qualities that don’t fit with our ideal image of ourselves.

You wanna find your own shadow?  Think about who winds you up.  Who really really annoys you?  What is it about them that is so so so….fecking annoying, irritating, plain wrong?  Ten to one it’s your own shadow being reflected right back at you.

Anyhow… 

We’re all a bit crappy, okay?  Yeah, even the Soul Puppy.  Most of the time he is soft and biscuity and winsome.  But, every so often, he breaks into serial killer mode and chews the faces off soft toys.  He gouges out eyes; he bites off noses; he chews on cheeks.  Always faces.  Honestly, I have a pile of eyes sitting on my desk.  Can’t help but be reminded of my demon, Samael.  He’s a face biter too.  Tellingly this was an aspect of the book that editors couldn’t handle (along with the hacking off of zombie heads with spades L).  The face biting had to go.  But – see – he chewed off faces to reveal people; to show their true selves; to splice aside the façade and show the shadow…  

And, hmm, maybe people just aren’t ready to do that…


Lest We Forget: Those Who Have Fallen....

Badger: full facial removal

Panter: eye, nose excision

Snowy: eye removed; ear lost

Just a few who have fallen to the dark side of the SP....and no, we don't go for very imaginative names in this house... :)

Girls v boys (warning, contains penes)

Now don’t get me wrong on this.  First things first: I adore my son. Totally, utterly adore him. But I do sometimes wish I’d had a daughter as well.  I always thought I would.  Way back, when my sister was having her fourth (or was it fifth?) child she said, very firmly, ‘I can see you with one child.  A girl. I just know it.’  Now, see, maybe this is why I’ve always been a bit wary of the psychic malarkey.   Cos while she got the one bit right, I have ended up being the only female in the house – yup, even the dogs have dicks.

But anyhow. I don’t have a daughter and, unless I become one of those ancient mothers with babies (which SO isn’t going to happen) it’s going to stay that way.

I was going to crash in front of the fire but, having successfully ignored the phone ringing, I caught a late tweet (perils of Twitter) from Charlie:

nice, innit? particularly without us being noisy

‘It’s Rachel’s birthday; you’re ignoring the phone! Just join us at the Thai. Now!’ 
What can you do?  So I whizzed down the pub to tell Adrian and James I was off out - again.  Problem with the pub is that you can’t whizz.  So, by the time I’d wriggled away and got to the restaurant, they were finishing off the noodles. 

Their youngest, G, is my godson and he’s delicious. But oh, I do love their girls so much:  The Mistress of All Evil and Princess Delicious.  The MoAE wanted to talk books and music and fashion.  The PD was keen to tell me how she’d pulled a fast one on the MoAE who now owed her a small fortune (plus interest).  I admired the PD for her business acumen but felt a stab of pity for MoAE who has as corrosive an Amazon habit as I do – books, music, shoes – we’re soul sisters.  She wanted to know about Samael – she was my first beta reader, inhaling every chapter as I wrote it.  So I told her about the rewrite: she wasn’t impressed.

‘But I loved the surfers, and the crusties.’

‘Yeah, but what the zombie beheading and the crucifixion and that unseemly tussle at the gates of Hell?’ I said with a sad shrug.

‘Oh God, yeah! You haven’t…??  You HAVEN'T???? But those were the best bits….’

I explained that editors seemed to think the book was too complex, had too many sub-plots, was too dark.

‘But we teens love horror!  We devour dark,’ she said with venom, with a firm emphasis on ‘we teens’ (when you’re thirteen that teen bit is mega important). ‘We love complex stuff.  We teens are deep.  Dumbing it down is just patronising.’

Well, couldn’t argue with that.  She did a great eyeroll (told you we were soul sisters). ‘I can’t think about it,' she said flapping her hands. 'Let's listen to this instead.’ She pulled me down and stuck an ear-bud in my ear. 

‘Are you trying to shock Jane?’ said her mother, ‘Cos it won’t work.’

‘I know, silly,’ said the MoAE. ‘She’s cool and trendy….’  See why I love this girl? 

‘You’ll love this,’ she continued. ‘It’s called….’ She dropped her voice…’I’ve Just Had Sex.’

So we listened to it together. Catchy tune so we started jigging around a bit.  And then I just howled with laughter.

‘Penis. He said penis….’ I covered my mouth with my hand. ‘Shit, sorry.’ (flapping my hands guiltily in the direction of my young godson). Rachel gave me The Look. ‘The penis bit was okay…’ she said witheringly.  ‘….the shit wasn’t.’  Damnit, bad godmother again.

‘But, but…you can’t say ‘penis’ in a song; it’s just such a ridiculous word.’
‘I know,’ said the MoAE happily.  ‘It’s hilarious.’

And it was and we just howled with laughter.  And then laughed more about hair and friends and how ridiculous boys can be.  And tried on sandals and considered doing the helium out of the birthday balloons, like we did last year. 

I left with the biggest smile on my face.  Big hugs from everyone apart from my godson who took my hand very carefully, bent over and gave it a soft, respectful kiss (he always does this – it is just edible).  When I got home, I asked James if he’d heard the Penis song. He frowned with total disdain. ‘God no. That’s disgusting. Why on earth would I listen to something like that?’

Girls and boys. Different creatures.   

But, but…just watch the video – it cracks me up.  Maybe it's a girl thing.

http://www.youtube.com/embed/lQlIhraqL7o

Hell - Part One

So you wanna know about hell?  You wanna know about demons? Honestly, you lot…  As you may know, I’m writing a series of YA novels about a girl who falls in love with someone who is…what?  Demon? Angel? Something inbetween?  Anyhow, without giving too much away, when Book Two opens my main character is in metaphorical hell while her ex is sojourning in the actual destination: Hell with a capital H.  So, I had figured I’d go to the capital L (tell me you got that?) to get in the mood, so to speak.  And to meet a few demons.

Where do you find demons in London?  At a gathering of Chaos magicians in a backstreet occult bookshop surely?  It looked promising as I arrived.  There was a lot of black leather; plenty of facial hardware; tattoos and piercings; white faces and bloodshot eyes.  I wandered in and sniffed.  Sulphur?  Hmm, more like mandarin and floor polish really.  I browsed the bookshelves.  Necronomicon and Nocturnicon. Technomages and Pacts with the Devil. Low Magick and high risks. Getting closer.

A small woman with gimlet-bright eyes peered up at me and started to dance.  ‘Do you dance?’ she said.

‘Of course,’ I replied with a smile, following her in a bit of a cumbia. 

‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘One should always dance.’  Quite so.  She danced me down the stairs to where two tall men with long black hair were serving wine and proffering hummus and carrot sticks. 

The lecture, I have to say, was a huge disappointment.  The speaker was a PhD student who had perfected the art of obfuscation, made even more unintelligible by muttering in a transatlantic drawl.  I caught the odd word: exoskeleton, sigil, lobotomy, shame, subjugation, DNA, chimera, pack, pact, anomalous.  I started drawing sigils in my notebook and sketching faces.  I had kinda hoped to talk to people afterwards but they melted into the night…apart from an elderly woman with a face the colour and texture of a prune who thrust a small glass jar into my hand as I left. 

HEKATE of the cross-roads, keeper of the keys of the universe.  Storax, frankincense, myrrh, willow, aconite.
Hmm. 
Add 3 drops of blood to portion used in ritual, thus aligning self with intent.
Hmm

She smiled, shrugged and vanished.  In a puff of smoke?  Oh, how I wish…  But honesty impels me:  it was more like a fading away to grey... 

To be continued…in the meantime, some music...

http://youtu.be/e97isb0e5nQ

And a rather beautiful little film

http://youtu.be/2ePWK0qfisE

My new office

I have a new office. It’s clean and smart and does great coffee. It’s blissfully, heavenly, sensually warm. I can work without looking like some weird nomad bundled in blankets. People walk past and wave cheerily.  Occasionally the odd nice person will wander over and we will chat a little about silly inconsequential things. Then I put my headphones back on which is my clear sign to ‘leave me alone please’ and I write. And write. And write.

Which is a bloody relief as I suddenly realised I had to get a ripple on with the rewrite of Samael. I was procrastinating to the point of mental instability and financial suicide.

See, this is where I usually work. It’s an old kitchen table in my study. I do have a desk; actually I have two but they are both piled high with stuff – generally James’. Yes, I hotdesk with my son, how mad is that? Actually he tends to muscle in on my table too, purloining my PC because he (for some inexplicable reason) picked off half the keys on his own laptop. So I go to work and find I’ve apparently joined several gaming sites and have sewn a crop of artichokes. It’s enough to drive me to drink.

Also the SP has decided that it’s not enough to chew shoes and cushions. His latest fetish is razor blades. Somehow he finds disposable razors and chews them until the blades fall out and then munches on the blades. Can this place be so unendurable that he is trying to commit canine suicide? Weirdly, despite the mangled blades, the dog doesn’t have a mark on him. He’s made of Teflon.

Anyhow. My study depresses me. It’s a dumping ground for dirty kitbags, junk mail and recycling. It has windows smeared with dog drool and I could probably spin hippy weavings with the furry balls of dust that undulate softly around my feet, caught in the icy drafts that blow in from the hall.

All of a sudden the answer fell like the proverbial thunder bolt. The local cafe has recently expanded and has a whole new little mezzanine tucked away up a small flight of stairs. So – ta da! - here I sit, with my notes and my trusty Moleskine, scribbling like a...er....demon.

And, when I’ve vomited out enough words for one day, I sit back, turn off Hildegard of Bingen (I can’t write to anything with discernable lyrics or I stop and listen) and switch to something a bit more upbeat and whizz through the papers.

Yesterday I even found this very blog lurking in one of them. The Times had run a feature on the US uberblogger Dooce and had added a sidebar with six homegrown blogs. Confess I was surprised – but yes, chuffed - to see mine included (along with that of my lovely friend Alice) and online mates too. I even sounded relatively sane in the bit they quoted.

Personally I put it all down to my nice new office.