Archives for: November 2007
Creative Writing CV
Sarah's extensive poetry and short story publications and competition successes.
Why read Sarah's blog?
This short piece should help people find their way round the various categories of my blog so they can get the most of the many posts on offer.
Your Father's Knife
When one of your boyfriends said the knife in your dreams symbolised a penis, he was wrong: it was wishful thinking on his part. (His real blade, which marked him out as gang leader, was big and he wielded it impressively.) No, your father's knife that you dream about is not his penis but his tongue, which cut deftly and repeatedly into you and your mother:
Yellow Roses
It had been a long day; children-filled and noisy. There was nothing new about this and, as usual, Jenny was past wilting and the boys nearly in bed when John arrived home from work, late again. However, unlike usual, half-hidden behind his back was a bouquet of yellow roses, bursting with scent and sunshine.
Express Body Parts Exchange
Maria was Bridget's first. Of course, she had originally pioneered her revolutionary surgical procedure for herself and her husband Brian. But it seemed safest to test it on other people first. Desperate, hairy Maria and her bald husband Tim were the obvious choice.
Recipe for Recalling One’s Childhood
Serves: one typical adult
Ingredients:
1 familiar childhood object;
5 favourite family photos;
250g of memories;
a pinch of nostalgia;
a handful of often-repeated phrases;
1 packet of love letters or a Valentine’s card;
some imagination;
3tsp related tales.
Your hands
You try to wash your hands of them; free yourself from the lists. But they keep your life within neat, well-defined limits: controllable. Every action is timetabled, ordered in your head, laid out in advance. It stops you slipping up, losing the plot, so...you swallow pills, wash your hands, bleach floors, check windows, lock the door. You mustn't get sidetracked, check doors again, lock the window, bleach floors, wash your hands again, and again and again till the skin crumbles and your blood runs free into the clear water.
The necklace
Carol has a necklace of numbers. The concept reminds her of the sweet necklaces she wore as a child, sucking them off slowly one by one. Only, of course, she isn't losing sweets but gaining days.
Tattoos
Even afterwards it is hard to be sure who begins, or how. Certainly, there is not a patch of skin left untouched, so that one would think he knew all about her and she about him.
Silence
Karen sighed as she picked up the phone and cradled its breathy silence to her ear. She knew already who it was, and why he wasn't speaking.
Gaps
When Annie told him she was pregnant, Gareth was delighted. In fact, he already knew. There was no doubt in his mind that he knew her better than she knew herself. It was the greatest news he could imagine, and he told her so.
Keys
It was amazing what one could find in the sand. Graham wasn't a professional beachcomber by any means, but he considered himself lucky. Over the years, he, his metal detector and spade had unsanded coins, rings, necklaces, earrings, bracelets and watches, as well as the usual junk like fishing weights, rusty nails, cans and ring-pulls.
Fish Out of Water (or The Mermaid's Tail)
“He who is not contented with what he has, would not be contented with what he would like to have” Socrates
"Happiness is the light on the water. The water is cold and dark and deep." William Maxwell
Melting
I’m in bed with Paul for the first time; it should be the best moment of my life, but as usual it has been ruined by chocolate.
The Race
At first Henrietta thought Tony was joking when he challenged her to a race. She had been telling some other colleagues about her latest victory and they had been admiring her long, athlete's legs when Tony butted in.
Mishmash
this mishmash of muddled memories with their strands of colour sounds and sensations knits one purls one knits one into a familiar blanket you hug it close warmed by the cramped school canteen lumpy mashed potato smell of cabbage and disinfectant and your fat teacher called Mrs Middleton the house is big noisy and cushion-filled your pink bedroom flowers beads scarves and scraps of paper covered with messages from your friend Kate her borrowed red lipstick in the middle of your dressing table
The beauty of ice
These days the snow refuses to melt. And when you walk across the crusty whiteness, you leave no footprints. It is not that you are carried by Jesus, as the poem suggests he carries one across the quicksands, snowstorms and other rocky terrain. No, there are no footprints because you have become weightless, insubstantial. You only know you still exist because you can feel the snow's cold wetness. And because you have memories.
Messages
This section of short (300 words) fiction is inspired by Lynne Rees's and Sarah Salway's experimental writing Messages Project. More details about this project can be found here. Throughout November 2007, they posted a daily 300 word piece of writing and asked writers to make any link they liked to create a 300 word response. My responses may be found here. I tried to make each one work as a single piece of fiction read on its own and also when read with the original message that inspired it.
The irony of research - or a writer's life!
Being a good diligent writer, I sat down recently to do some research for a poem I was planning to write. The inspiration for the poem was a theme and I had only one idea for this theme, which was why I required the background reading.
I Googled a few terms on the internet, pulled up, read and printed numerous relevant web pages. So where's the irony? Well, having done all this, I actually ended up being inspired to write a completely different take on the theme, which required none of the reasearch I'd done! Still, at least the process stimulated my creative Muse!
Bitter Pill
My poem Bitter Pill is more autobiographical that much of my poetry, though still not a strictly accurate life story account. It was published in the new writer issue 86, September/October 2007.
Winning, whining/wining and belly dancing!
It has been one of those weeks where I've lost track of the days because there's so much been going on. From second prize in a poetry comp to my younger son being ill and having three GP visits, two hospital visits, an X-ray and an ultrasound in just four days!
Portrait Perfect
A picture of my husband from when we first moved in together. Obviously, we've both aged since then!
Colours
Writelinkers may recognise this photo as the inspiration for various poems and short stories I've written, including my shortlisted piece in the writelink Early One Morning contest. It was taken on the isle of Arran.
Space
This photo was taken on holiday at Gronant Sands, Presthaven near Prestatyn. What I love about it is the feeling of space and the levels of colour in the sand and sky.
Deception
This is another photo taken on Arran. I've called it Deception because it's all about the angle one views the stones from. Although they appear monumental in this picture, they are really only just above ankle-height! Still, they did look spectacular as the whole beach was covered in them!
Magic Messages
I have just discovered the most fantastic site for readers, writers and anyone wanting to pick up tips on how to promote their own book.
Waterfall
A picture of a waterfall on the Scottish isle of Arran. It just goes to prove summer isn't the only season of colour!
Photo Gallery
I've never been trained as a photographer but it was nonetheless considered 'part of the job' at one of the offices I worked in for reporters to take photos for the paid-for weekly paper.