Writer - Betty Taylor

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I'd like to welcome you to my interview with writer, Betty Taylor.  Enjoy.

Betty Taylor

Hello Betty.  Can you introduce yourself?

I'm Betty Tayloy from Codsall, South Staffordshire, near Wolverhampton.

How long have you been writing?

30 years.

What first got you interested in writing?

I went to a 6-week ‘Writing For Fun’ course at a local evening class.  After the course several course members wanted to continue writing so we formed the Codsall Writers’ Group – it is still going today. 

I am the group leader/organiser.  The original group I helped found has now operates as a Community Learning Group which means we get a little funding from the County Council.  It also means that we have to demonstrate that learning takes place in order to secure our funding.  

What is the most valuable thing you've taken away from your writing group?

The joy in hearing everyone’s work when we’re all writing to the same brief.  The result is amazingly diverse so it’s interesting to see how each member interprets the subject matter.  

Exactly, especially when people go off on a tangent that you hadn't even considered.  What genre(s) do you write?

At the group we attempt many genres.  My personal writing is usually poetry these days.  In the past I’ve attempted short stories for the women’s mag market and articles.  I also write short stories and factual pieces.

Are there any genres that you don't enjoy writing?

I’m not interested in writing horror or anything gory.

I'm with you there.  It scares me too much, on many levels!  Do you start out with a complete idea for your stories, or do you just start writing and hope for the best?

With fiction, I can never plan a plot.  I just start writing and see where it takes me.  I guess when I write fiction it has to be character-driven.

How do you come up with your characters' names and personalities?

Pluck them from the air.

What is your writing routine?

I used to write late at night but now I’m older mornings are much more productive.

Do you have an editing process?

I write straight on to the computer – edit it many times and constantly change bits.  I think every time you read your own work you find something to change.

And even then you still miss things; well I know I do!  Who/what influences your writing?  Where do you get your inspiration from?

I read the writing mags especially Mslexia.  I now only write in response to writers’ group exercises.  Topics are joint contributions from the members and myself.  We compile an annual programme to work to so we have set topics.  

Have you ever had anything published?

I’ve had a couple of factual articles published in Writers’ Forum.  Short story in a teenage mag (many years ago).  I’ve won poetry prizes and received prizes in many writing competitions.  Pieces read on local Radio.  And once I had a poem read by Derek Jamieson on a Radio Two late night programme.

Very impressive.  Would you consider self-publishing/e-publishing?

I’m not interested in self-publishing – too much cost involved.  I do own a Kindle so I like reading e-books.  

Have you ever entered any writing competitions?

Now and then – I’ve won runner up prizes and once had first prize in a poetry competition.

How important is it for you to share your writing?

It’s tempting to be precious about one’s writing but I think it’s very important to share your writing, after all, why do we write if not to be read?  A writer needs a response to his/her work in the same way an artist or musician needs a response.  Feedback is important so that a writer can measure the quality of his/her writing.

I agree.  It's always important to have an impartial eye look over our work.  What do you enjoy most/least about writing?

Getting my bum on the chair in the first place – procrastination is rife.

I think procrastination comes hand in hand with creativity!  What's the best piece of writing advice you've ever been given?

There are no dull subjects – only dull writers.

That's the first time I've heard that, and I like it!  What advice could you give to a new writer?

Keep slogging away –  there is a market for all levels – don’t be intimidated by the super-intelligent.

Do you have any favourite lines from novels/plays/poetry/songs, or any favourite literary quotations?

Lots:

As stated earlier:  "There are no dull subjects – only dull writers."

I love this one and find it quite funny: "The old repeat themselves and the young have nothing to say, the boredom is mutual." ~ Jacques Bainville.

"Love is all there is…" ~ Emily Dickinson.

"You can’t wait for inspiration, you have to go after it with a club." ~ Jack London 1876-1916.

"A rejection (which in any case is directed toward your work and not to you as a person) may well reflect more unfavourably on the editor’s ability than on yours." ~ Judith Appelbaum and Nancy Evans from How to Get Happily Published.

"A Haiku is a raindrop of a poem." ~ Radio 4 Poetry Please January 2002.

Do you think your writing reflects your book tastes?

No, I don’t think my writing reflects my books tastes.  I like contemporary literary fiction and poetry.  I don’t think I’m capable of writing as well as the authors I read.

If you could have written anything, what do you wish that could have been?

A novel – contemporary fiction.

Apart from writing, what are your other hobbies/interests?

I attend an art class. 

What are you working on at the moment?

Next week’s writers’ group topic.  And I’m always pondering the current competitions. 

Do you have a website/blog/Twitter/Facebook dedicated to your writing?

The website I have built is for the writers’ group and does not reflect my writing.  www.codsallwriters.weebly.com

Codsall Writers are on Twitter but I don’t think many members use it.  Our members are all in the ‘retired’ age bracket and not too keen to confront the technology.  

Would you be able to provide a short piece of your work?

I decided to learn the piano when in my forties – this is the result.

Strife Begins At Forte

Not being the type that's sporty,

Not too highbrow, nor too haughty,

I'm learning' pianoforte - drat the scales,

But my battering of the ivories

Is shattering to Clive, he is

My much tormented tutor - hear his wails!

When playing pizzicato

I confuse it with legato,

And my grandioso tends to be quite small,

I can't do a tremolando

D'ye think he'll smack me hand?- oh!

Before I drive us both right up the wall.

I'm sure he feels quite weary

When he's teaching me the theory,

Dreary demisemiquavers won't behave,

They don't fit the acciaccatura

And cause a big furore,

Poor Chopin's turning over in his grave.

Just a middle-aged beginner

And a great harmonic sinner

Hubby's dinner's never done when he gets home,

As I thump the old 'pianner'

In my unmelodic manner,

Neighbour's bangin' on the wall's my metronome.

Though I send them all quite frantic

I intend to be pedantic...

Continuing this antic just the same,

While husband, son and daughter

Might threaten me with slaughter,

I’ll regale them with my 'music' - what a shame!

One day my great cacophony

May turn into a symphony,

By Jiminy! I think that pigs might fly,

So, whilst I'm still a duffer,

The world will have to suffer,

But, I'll get the hang of it before I die!

© Betty Taylor 

Thank you Betty.

Codsall Writers

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Welcome to my interview with Betty Taylor from Codsall Writers.

*****

Hello Betty.  Can you tell us a bit about your writing group? 

Codsall Village Hall

Tuesday mornings 9.30 – 12.30

We meet three weeks out of four (due to room availability)

Group established some 20+ years ago and it is now a Community Learning Group. 

How many members, on average, does your group have?

15

What is your role within the group?

Group leader / chairperson / organiser.

How are your sessions structured?

Members all contribute suggestions for writing topics.  A programme is compiled.  As far is as practically possible, the member who suggested a particular topic is invited to chair that week’s meeting.  The person chairing the meeting is also expected to provide the five-minute writing exercise.  Sometimes this can take the form of a quiz or some form of conundrum to work the grey matter.  

Even with others chairing meeting I endeavour to keep the meeting on track as it is so easy to lapse into general discussion.

·         Register
·         Everyone invited to declare something they’ve seen read or heard during the week relating to writing, literature, etc.  2 minutes per person to report on  a new word, book read, TV drama, conversation etc.
·         Each person reads their piece on week’s topic.  The group then comment / criticise the piece read.
·         Short coffee break
·         Five minute writing exercise – again these are read aloud and comments given.
·         Brief discussion on next week’s ‘homework’.
·         At the end of the meeting if anyone has personal writing to share they may do so if time allows.

What types of things do you cover in your group?

Over the past year we have covered various topics, including:

• Stones     Take the word ‘stones’ as your inspiration – interpret it as you will – beaches, graveyards, rolling, diamonds, faces….
• Disaster or Divine?      A day when everything went wrong – or right (fact or fiction)
• Time of Year:    What time of year do you really dislike and would like to sleep through?
• Childhood Games:       Write a rhyme suitable for a game of skipping  OR  write about games played when you were young.
• Food:          Food is all around us – write a story or poem set entirely around taste. 
• Unsung Heroes:      The world is full of unsung heroes (and heroines).  Discuss an act of kindness or generosity that you have witnessed. 

That sounds very interesting and diverse.  Do members of the group get a chance to run/lead a session or part of a session?

Yes – everyone takes a turn at being chairperson and supervising a writing session. 

Have you ever written collectively as a group, such as producing an anthology?

Yes.

What kind of support does your writing group provide for its writers?

We offer encouragement and positive feedback.  A couple of social events each year.

Where do you get your ideas/writing prompts from?

Suggestions from members.  My own ideas.   Ideas from writing magazines / relevant books.

What is the best piece of writing advice you've been given?

Keep writing and believe in yourself.

What is the best piece of writing advice you give?

There are no dull subjects, only dull writers.  I think a good writer can attempt to make anything interesting by applying a new ‘angle’ – putting the topic into an interesting context – being inventive.

Do you have guest speakers at your group?

No – funds don’t run to speakers.

Does your writing group have a website/blog/Twitter/Facebook?

www.codsallwriters.weebly.com

And finally, how would someone go about joining Codsall Writers?

Ring or e-mail me.  I would send  details and a copy of our programme.  He/she would be invited to turn up for a couple of sessions to ascertain if we suit his/her needs .

Thank you Betty.

Betwixt The Cup and The Lip #1

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Betwixt The Cup and The Lip is my first novel.  Well, it's not really a novel.  It's a collection of 26 short stories, but combined they make a complete story.  Each story is voiced by a different character, but at least one of the other 26 characters appears in each story.  This is loosely based on the idea of six degrees of separation where everyone can possibly be connected to everyone else by a maximum of six steps.

The stories are set in various years, and allow the reader to take a brief glimpse into the lives of 26 fascinating individuals.

But why 26 people?  That seems like a strange number of stories.  Why not 20, 25 or 30?

I will tell you.  Each story is a lipogram.  A lipogram is a piece of text that contains 25 letters of the alphabet, by omitting one.  This is a technique that I first learnt about when I was at university, and I immediately fell in love with it.  Although may people have written lipograms, I was inspired by The Book of Bachelors by Philip Terry; one of my lecturers and an active Oulipian.*

*NB - Oulipo is a form of experimental writing that imposes certain constraints in order to create unusual pieces through the concept of chance.  More information can be found in Oulipo Compendium by Harry Mathews and Alastair Brotchie (an absolutely amazing book and a must-have for any creative writer who wants to push the boundaries of writing style).

So back to the 26 people ... I wrote 26 lipograms, where each story omits a different letter of the alphabet.  All of my characters are connected to each other through various situations and events, in the same way that all letters are connected to each other when put in a certain order to create words.

In some cases, this constraint makes stories quite uncomfortable to read (let alone to write) and in other cases, you wouldn't know that this constraint had been applied.  When reading the stories, the constraint should not be the first thing that the reader notices.  They should still be able to enjoy the story as a stand alone piece of text.

Ideally I would love to get this collection published, but there seems to be little interest in it as it's not 'commercial' enough and doesn't appeal to a wide audience.  I understand that, but it didn't stop me writing it, and it's not going to stop me sharing excerpts with you here.  Self-publishing/e-publishing is looking more and more appealing, and I have made a couple of mock up covers for this book.

They're far from ideal, but I thought I'd get started to see what I could do with the resources I have.  If anyone has any ideas for improvements, let me know.

So here are some snippits from the first six stories.  Each chapter title is the name of the character speaking in that story.

Warning: This book is not suitable for anyone under 18 years old.  The excerpts that I publish on here are family friendly (ok, they're probably PG if I'm being honest), but some of the completed stories contain graphic scenes unsuitable for children.

Melanie

So Trish was going psycho out the back, and there were like a million people in the store, panic buying because of the impending Bank Holiday.  I started walking towards the wall of CDs when I got accosted by an old woman in a granny-mobile.  She rammed her trolley into my thigh and glared at me.

“I saw a CD advertised on the telly last night.  I can’t see it on the shelf.  Do you have it?”

“I’m sorry?” I said, slightly thrown by her lack of detail.

“I saw a CD advertised on the telly last night.  I can’t see it on the shelf.  Do you have it?”

Still rubbing my thigh I asked her what CD it was that she was looking for.

“I can’t remember the name.  Now do you have it or not?  I am in a hurry.”

I looked around to see if there were any hidden camera men or something from that show Hidden Camera Surprise.

You know, that show where people act like complete idiots to other people, and then they get in a big fight and then Jonty Caulfield jumps out of a wheely bin and shoves a microphone and a cheque for £500 in your face for being such a good sport.

But no, no Jonty, just an idiot.  I kept my polite smile on, remembering what it says on my name badge.

Cheap & Cheery, I'm

     MELANIE

Your wish is my command

“If you can’t remember the name of the CD, maybe you can remember who it’s by?” I said.

“Oh it’s lots of different people.  One of those constipation thingies.”

A confused look spread across my face.  "One of those constipation thingies?” I repeated.

“Yes, yes, are you stupid or something?  You know.  A constipation album, with loads of different songs by loads of different people,” she replied.

“Aah, you’re after a compilation album,” I said.

“Yes, yes, that’s what I said.  Stop being difficult.  Now are you going to get it for me or am I going to have to find someone else with half a brain cell to do it for me?” she said, and then to the side, “not that it would be difficult to find someone else with half a brain cell in here.”

“Would you like a mirror, madam?" I asked, under my breath.

“What did you say to me?” she glared.

“Would you like to follow me, madam?” I said.

I let the thought of me snapping the brakes on her granny-mobile and driving her towards the motorway pass through my head.  I took a deep breath and walked over to the compilation display.

“There’s no point in looking on there.  I’ve had a look already and I can’t find it.”

“BING BONG!  Can Melanie Barker go to the confectionery aisle?  Melanie Barker to the confectionery aisle.”

Warren

When did he die?  He didn’t actually die. 

Yes, I know he’s dead, but you’re not hearing me.  He didn’t die.  He was killed.  That’s not the same thing. 

Well, when someone dies, it’s just them.  They do something to themselves, like they lose their footing on the stairs and fall to their demise or they drink so much that their liver bursts.  Or it’s them and a disease.  They lose a battle against cancer or AIDS or something.  Or their body just decides that it’s had enough and all functions cease.  That’s dying.  When another human being is added into the equation then the dead human being is killed.  They are killed.  Dying isn’t taking a walk with your sons when a drunken idiot drives their car into you, ramming you into the railings, crushing your ribs into your heart and taking your life.  That’s not dying.  That’s being killed. 

Jason.  Jason Ross.  One of those missionaries.  Travelling all over the world, giving food, medicine and school resources to those that have nothing.  Working to make life easier for others.  Well thank you very much Jason Ross, you have made my life so much easier.  One less Christmas gift to buy.  One less birthday to remember.

Dad was a good man, you know.  He did everything he could for us.  We didn’t have much but we had enough. 

We’d gone for a walk that day because he needed to talk to us about something.  He and Mum had been married for 15 years and he wanted them to renew their wedding vows.  Their original wedding had been a hurried affair.  Money was tight and they could only ever afford the basics.  Even then it was a struggle but they managed to survive.  And they were in love, back in a time where love could get you through anything.  And love was all that mattered.  Marriage wasn’t about a costly wedding, huge dress or a 3 foot tall cake.  It was about being with someone that you cared for and wanted to share your life with.  But now it’s all show and little substance.  One little argument nowadays, or a short time of stress in the marriage home, and it’s divorce all the way.  Everyone is so lazy; thinking that the easy way out is the best way out.

Mum and Dad couldn’t afford much but it did us right.  I remember this one year Dad built me and my brother a go-kart.  Liam got in it first.  He was all ready to drive away but then Dad said something was missing.  He went into the kitchen and all we could hear was the clattering of tins and cutlery then he came back out holding Mum’s metal vegetable colander.  He set it down on Liam’s head and tied an old belt around it all to make sure it was secure.  Mum stood at the kitchen window waving. 

Freya

I am so excited, like the most excited ever.  Even more than that.  I can’t even explain it.  You know when you were like six years old and you knew that your parents had taken your Christmas list seriously and downstairs there was a Superstar Sasha bike and a Superstar Sasha butterfly princess doll and a Superstar Sasha jewellery box and a Superstar Sasha superstar make-up head with realistic hair extensions and a Superstar Sasha karaoke machine with all new superstar tunes, never heard before except in her feature film, Superstar Sasha Conquers Europe, which was also under the tree, all wrapped in Superstar Sasha Christmas paper.  And you just couldn’t sleep because the butterflies in your tummy flapped around like crazy because you knew in a few hours they would be yours to keep forever and ever but you weren’t allowed to open them until your parents had had their coffee and smoke.  And you would wish so hard that they would hurry up just so that you could rip off that paper and play.  Do you remember how that felt?

Well that’s how I feel now, but even more excited.  In a little while I will be able to open up my Superstar Sasha bundle, but this time it’s not Superstar Sasha.  This time it’s not a doll that I have to play pretend with.  This time it’s a boy.

I know.  A real life boy.  My boyfriend.  Well at least I think he’s my boyfriend.

He’s a few years older than me but that doesn’t bother me at all.  He’s so mature.  My friends are so jealous.  He’s in his 20s, I don’t know exactly how old he is, but that doesn’t matter, and he drives and he has a car; well it’s his mum’s, but he can use it whenever he wants.  And he works at Tasty Tacos, you know; the tastiest tacos in town, which is so cool.  He’s allowed to eat as many nacho cheese covered corn chips and as much salsa dip as he wants, for free!  He only has to pass one more test to become a shift supervisor.  His official title will be Saturday Assistant Shift Supervisor; it’s so cool to have a boyfriend in a position of power.  Maybe he’ll be able to sneak me some extra fries at lunch.  Perhaps he’ll take me out to celebrate once he’s promoted, in his car, out for dinner.  Or he could buy us some cider and a couple of burritos and we could park up somewhere nice for some romantic time, just the two of us.  That would be so cool.

Of course I’m not with him just because of that.  He’s really nice, so funny.  He can burp the alphabet in about 10 seconds.  He doesn’t even need to have drunk fizzy drinks. 

Maxwell

Busses are strange.  I much prefer walking.  Other things that are strange are cars taxis lorries trucks bikes prams scooters motorbikes trains.  All vehicles with wheels are strange.  I like them about as much as I like vomit cereal for breakfast.  I ate this cereal this one time ages ago.  Mum bought it because it was cheap at the supermarket.  I knew why it was cheap because Mum pours it out into my bowl then pours milk on top.  It looks like cat sick.  It also tastes like cat sick.

I ate it this one time ages ago for a bet. 

We give our cat a bunch of sweets from the shop at the bottom of our street.  FizzyPoppers SherbetCrackles StrawberryBombs.  We put them in his cat meal.  We stir it all up so he won’t know it’s there.  He eats it right up.  Licking his lips he is.  A bit of time later his mouth is proper open.  Coughs splutters chokes.  Pluh-huh-huh he goes.  All these strange noises come out of his mouth then this rainbow of colourful sick comes out.  It is blue yellow green orange purple a bit brown in places but still really bright.  Franky says I bet you to eat some.  I say what can I have if I eat some.  Franky says you can have some bubble gum a couple of plastic army men some marbles or a picture of a girl wearing no clothes that he took from his uncle’s newspaper last week. 

I choose the bubble gum because it’s yumalicious.  So Franky gives me a spoon says you have to eat a whole spoonful.  I eat it.  I eat the whole spoon of cat sick.  It tastes strange but I eat it all.  Franky is nearly sick himself.  He says I can’t believe you ate that.  I say I can eat anything.  I can’t eat anything but he wasn’t to know that.  I’m allergic to nuts.  If I eat a nut then I can stop breathing then I have to go to the hospital then ... well ... then I can’t even talk about it but it’s not nice.  I say to Franky where’s my bubble gum.  He says I’ll give it to you later.  So we go to the park because the cat is boring now.  Franky sees a big blob of bubble gum on the floor.  He says there’s your bubble gum.  He picks it up then points it at me.  He says you have to eat it because you can eat anything.  I eat it.  He laughs.  Later I’m sick but he wasn’t to know that.

  

Martin

(I'm afraid I can't post any of this story.  It's too graphic, and it's full of expletives.) 

Sam

A couple of days later I noticed you by chance.  I hadn’t been looking out for you this time so it made me realise that someone or something had commanded this meeting.  A higher force had been conspiring.  I never considered myself to be religious, but it became clear from that moment that a deity did exist and he, or indeed she, had put us both in the same place at the same time for a reason, to fulfil a higher purpose.  You had been in a second hand book shop, perusing the plays and poetry section.  You then sauntered over to general literature.  You glided so gracefully, as if floating like an angel on a cloud being carried to your destination by a soft breeze.  I had imagined you as an intelligent lady but this proved it.  You appreciated the finer things in life, and at that, I became slightly nervous.  I’m not one of the finer things in life and I felt unsure that you’d appreciate me.  It’s silly of me to have those thoughts.  You can’t fight fate, and fate had decided that you and I should be together.

I came over and stood next to you.  You turned your head and smiled the same smile as in the café, and you reached your hand out and picked up a book.  I glanced at the title; Enduring Love.  I smiled inside.  That had been your sign for me, to illustrate your feelings for me.  I didn’t say anything.  I didn’t think it appropriate.  You’d said all you needed to say by picking up that book.  

I picked up a book so that you didn’t think me strange for standing in a book shop not looking at books.  I didn’t have a clue about any of the authors that surrounded us.  I’m not really a book person, more of a cinema goer.  I reached up and pulled a book from its shelf.  My fingers had closed themselves around the spine of Misery.  I’d seen this film a couple of years ago.  I opened up the front cover and read the dust jacket, even though the story had embedded itself in my mind.  You glanced at me then the book I held.  You didn’t smile.  You just moved over to the counter to pay for your book.  It hit me a couple of seconds later that I’d ruined it.  You held a book presenting the message of ‘love’ for me and ‘misery’ had been my reply.

I ran after you to apologise.  It had been a stupid mistake.  I needed to explain.  You had moved so quickly through the throngs of people, it had been difficult to keep up.  You seemed to be quite fit.  I imagined you at the gym on a tread machine, running up hill, perspiration dropping from your hairline, your skin glistening under the fluorescent lights.  I panted for breath.  I had a painful stitch in my side.  I felt nauseous.  It might have been love pushing me.  The urge to catch you had been too strong to ignore.  I had to keep going.  

*****

If this has piqued your interest, I will post some more story excerpts in a few days.  Please feel free to comment or make suggestions; I'm open to any ideas you may have.  And if you're a publisher and would like to publish this collection, please don't hesitate to get in touch with me.  You can find my contact details here.

Writer - Caroline Hossack

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Welcome to my interview with writer, Caroline Hossack.  Enjoy.

Caroline Hossack

Hello Caroline.  Can you introduce yourself?

My name's Caroline Hossack, and I live in Newbury, Berkshire.

How long have you been writing?

As long as I can remember.  One of my earliest memories was of my Aunt finding a feminist rant I wrote about my cousin.  She was so proud of me.  These days my friends call me the anti-feminist, but I do still write.

What first got you interested in writing?

I grew up in a family of readers; my Aunt is the head of an English department and fed me books like candy, my parents had cupboards that spilled books onto the floor when you opened them, my grandparents did a sort of book tombola every time we visited.  One of my school reports stated: "Caroline continues to devour books with obvious enjoyment".  When you read that much, you're bound to want to pencil down your own ideas sooner or later.

I'm glad to see that I wasn't the only child to drown in books!  Do you attend a writing group?

Yes I do: West Berkshire Writers.  We meet every Wednesday at 7.45pm and the group has self-published two collections.  I attend for social reasons, but also because I need the discipline and inspiration I get from the group.

What genre(s) do you write?  What drew you to this/these genre(s)?

I mainly write abstract poetry (freeverse and rhyming).  Occasionally I write horror stories.  In addition, I contributed several articles to the features section of my University's newspaper, The Rabbit (archives available online).  I occasionally script short video blogs (vlogs), available on my Facebook profile.  I have scripted some short plays for classwork.

My University's newspaper was also called The Rabbit; what a coincidence?!  Are there any genres that you don't enjoy writing?

Romance.  Because romance is dead.  Seriously, because I can't write it honestly or with a straight face.  It just isn't me.

Also news articles  It's a very structured and dull way of writing that drains all the colour from your research.  At least, in my limited experience (work experience at the Evening Telegraph, Herald and Post, and Independent on Sunday). 

Have you ever had anything published?

Yes, "A Storm in a Wood" (a metered rhyming poem in a local anthology when I was at school in Northamptonshire), and three pieces in "Diamond Facets" (an anthology of writing from my writing group, published to coincide with the Queen's Golden Jubilee), some research for articles in The Independent on Sunday, Vox Pops (business and comment) in The Independent on Sunday, the Messageboard feature in The Independent on Sunday, several NIBS in the Evening Telegraph, several articles, poems and an interview in The Rabbit. 

Have you sent your writing to agents/publishers?

No.  Mainly because I either haven't written enough or the writing isn't good enough.  I have entered a poetry competition, but unfortunately never heard back from the organising committee.

I have entered several poetry competitions on All Poetry and have won many trophies, but I no longer count that as the measure of success. 

Would you consider self-publishing/e-publishing?

Yes as we have done so at writing group and the result looks professional.  If I wished to have a career as a writer I would look for an agent or support from a publishing house as I believe this is still the route to success and credibility in the industry.

E-books don't interest me as I like to own paper copies of the books that matter to me.

Me too.  Well, I just like to own books!  Have you ever attended an open mic event for spoken word performers?

Yes, several.  I've hosted a fair few too.

How important is it for you to share your writing?

Very.  Editing is very much a collaborative process for me.  I'm also an entertainer and creative source amongst my friends.

Some things can't be shared though. 

I couldn't agree more with your last comment!  Who/what influences your writing?  Where do you get your inspiration from?

Real life, dude.  And reading.  You really need to read before you even think about writing. 

What is your writing routine?

Just when I feel like it.  I get an absolute urge to spill or a line shouts at me from my brain.  I buy very much into the premise of Pirandello's Six Characters in Search of an Author.

Do you start out with a complete idea for your stories, or do you just start writing and hope for the best?

Start writing and the story/poem will write itself.  With criticism/articles you have to do a little more than that.  I plan very much for those, as well as for plays and vlogs.

Do you have an editing process?

I read over my work and hack it to pieces.  Then I get someone else to do the same.  Then we repeat the process until we beat it into something credible between ourselves.

How do you come up with your characters' names and personalities?

Names are hard because I have to pluck them out of thin air, personalities are easy because they're stolen from people I know or fantasise about.  However, once you have the character's personality, the name is generally quite easy. 

What do you enjoy the most/least about writing?

Most: The sense of being somewhere else.

Least: Writer's block. 

What is the most valuable piece of advice you've been given with regards to writing?

Two pieces:

1. To be more honest in what I write.  A beautifully structured, technically perfect poem falls flat if it has no heart behind it.

2. To write about somebody other than myself.  It is too easy and too boring to use oneself as one's best means of expression. 

What advice could you give to a new writer?

Read!  Take constructive criticism, it will make you into a better writer!  And believe in yourself. 

Apart from writing, what are your other hobbies/interests?

Acting, debating, stand-up comedy, politics, comedy writing (not mine, other people's), fringe theatre, musical theatre and cinema (particularly independent cinema).

What types of things do you read?  Do you think your writing reflects your book tastes?

Fantasy, post-modern American literature, dystopian fiction, pop culture comedy columns/books, popular science, mystery, thrillers, dark classics, John Green (a genre all of his own), poetry.

My writing is influenced by, but not restricted to, my book tastes.

If you could have written anything, what do you wish that could have been?

1984 by George Orwell.  And Kiss Me Creep by Marion Woodruff.  Possibly Here's To You Rachel Robinson by Judy Blume.  Oh, and Elidor by Alan Garner. 

Do you have any favourite lines from novels/plays/poetry/songs, or any favourite literary quotations?

Yes. 

All of Billy Joel's lyrics. 

"Love is a dog from hell." - Charles Bukowski. 

"There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out." - Charles Bukowski. 

"Here's to you Rachel Robinson...and here's to my whole ******* family." - Judy Blume.

"Under the spreading chestnut tree, I sold you and you sold me." - 1984. 

What are you working on at the moment?

The mess inside my head.

Good luck with that!  I know that can take some time.  Do you have a website/blog/Twitter/Facebook dedicated to your writing?

Yes, http://allpoetry.com/Barbie.  This page is biography, but also links to writing and critiques.

Would you provide a short piece of your work?

Temptation

and your voice, your big scornful voice,
it says: “I told you, I said you couldn’t make it.” 

# 

Radio buzz,
electric hotspot,
an itch in your consciousness;
I was a liability
incessant whine,
death in the headphones
dress was a fanfare
the restaurant: white noise

it was once true you touched me
these days I touch myself;
rarely and better
even than him
[oh, but your voice is a parade
it screams and thrashes at my senses
shakes me awake to the light
that sneaks into this room,
this room that we once slept in
I promise: a mistake]

acid, acid in the blood
and you, the face of
a politician
a creep
a coward;
salvation
[you are not mine,
it is just that I see your smile
as a penance, your smirk
a joke at humanity’s expense,
no, no, you are not]

I see Mandy in disguise

she promises me freedom:

“Why is it that we never love a man

as much as we love a woman?”

and Jesus hangs His head

in shame.

© Caroline Hossack 2007 

Thank you very much, Caroline.

Writer - Ruth Muttlebury

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Welcome to my interview with writer, Ruth Muttlebury.  Enjoy.

Ruth Muttlebury

Hello Ruth.  Can you please introduce yourself?

I'm Ruth Muttlebury from Plymouth.

How long have you been writing?

As long as I can remember but very little was done for 20 years when my daughter was born and growing up.  I also helped run my late husband's farm in Cornwall during that time - which left little time for anything.  I won a creative writing prize in school in 1978 so the interest has been embedded for a while.

What first got you interested in writing?

I was always given lots of books when young.  Also, I was the member of a ballet/dancing school which put on productions, so from a young age I was working with scripts.

Do you attend a writing group?

I started with the St Budeaux Library (Plymouth) Writers' Group, which was closed by Plymouth Library Services.  At that time I had just joined a private/subscription library called Plymouth Proprietary Library which had a wealth of books; may first editions and rare.  I asked about a Writers Group and they suggested I started one up.  The rest is history!

Why do you attend a writing group?

The sheer joy of creativity.  We never know what will happen at the next gathering.  It's like a trip in the Tardis.  You can end up anywhere!

Hopefully with David Tennant in tow somewhere!  What is the most valuable thing you have taken away from your writing group?

Listening skills!

What genre(s) do you write?  What drew you to this/these genre(s)/

I enjoy mystery/historical mystery and poetry.  I think with mystery, part of your brain must be locigal or unravelling the mystery won't make sense.  As for poetry ... It writes itself.

Are there any genres that you don't enjoy writing?

Romance: I am not struck at all on romance.  I find it too predictable and inward looking.

What types of things do you write?

Poetry, short stories, Haiku, Tanka.

I enjoy the Japanese styles too.  Who/what influences your writing?  Where do you get your inspiration from?

The Classics (Greek and Roman writers).

How do you come up with your characters' names and personalities?

Hard to say but I try not to use names of people I know.

I'm the same.  I don't want to give my friends and family an unnecessary ego boost!  What is your writing routine?

I work full time so my writing is restricted to about 10 hours a week.

Do you start out with a complete idea for your stories, or do you just start writing and hope for the best?

Both: sometimes there is a plan (which deviates as I go) and at other times thoughts are random.

Do you have an editing process?

I am inclined to read my work out loud.  This is particularly useful in poetry.  Apart from that - I will occasionally e-mail things to my daughter (who is a scientist so not arts minded!)

Sometimes it's best to have someone with a fresh eye look over your work.  Have you ever had anything published?

I have had poetry published in various places and was also a runner up in the NAWG [National Association of Writers' Groups] play writing competition a few years ago.  I also came third in the 2011 West Country Writers' Association competition.  Overall I don't enter that many competitions due to lack of time. 

Have you ever sent your writing to agents/publishers?

No - I am not bothered about being published (strangely enough).  Competitions are good as they sometimes set a theme and will usually publish if you win, but apart from that I'm not fazed.

So no plans for self-publishing/e-publishing?

I am nowhere near self-publishing.  It would be too expensive.  As for e-books?  Too ephemeral.  Give me the real thing.

Have you ever attended an open mic event for spoken word performers?

No - a bit tacky for me.  (Is it writing or acting?)  I don't mind public speaking if I have to but open mic is all about showmanship.

How important is it for you to share your writing?

Not that important.  (There is nothing worse than someone who wants to hog the audience with their work). 

What is the best piece of writing advice you've been given?

Pick up a pen and just write.  It doesn't matter if nothing is on your mind at that moment in time - it gets the creativity flowing.

And what advice would you give to a new writer?

Enjoy what you are doing.

What do you enjoy the most/least about writing?

Most: I love words and using words; like plasticine ... They can be moulded.

Worst: Lack of time. 

If you could have written anything, what do you wish that could have been?

The Secret History by Donna Tartt.

Apart from writing, what are your other hobbies/interests?

Rowing (sea-boats), gardening, charity work.

What are you working on at the moment?

A poem on the theme of 'Invitation'.

Would you be able to provide a short piece of your work?

This is a poem called Jacob's Island and was written to mark the Bicentenary of Charles Dickens.  It was read aloud at the Plymouth Proprietary Library AGM in June 2012.

 Jacob's Island

A rookery, a den, with asphalt core
Where survival tactics are swift and sure
It sits adjacent to St Saviour’s Dock
Home of rapscallions where the locals pick locks        

Capital of cholera, Venice of the Drains
Are just a few nicknames the place quickly gained
When Jacob’s Island houses human hell
The only luminosity comes from glistening oyster shells

Which discarded and broken are rich banquet for the birds
Though Charles Dickens used plain, stronger words
Oliver Twist showed the plight of the needy
While the merchant class remained simply greedy 

Orphans abounded where disease was rife
Natural Selection made its own choice of life
Dreaded hellish workhouse, Bastille of the poor
For ‘twas deemed madness to say: ‘Please Sir, I’ll have more’.

The lot of Oliver Twist we all recognize
Yet virtuous he was in many peoples eyes
Oliver had something which made him unique
A quality which Fagin himself did speak

‘Young man if you carry on the way you began
One day you’ll grow up to be a very great man.’
Yet when someone knows what’s wrong from right
Social conditions don’t always help their plight

They have to continue the way they started
Boundaries erased, wholesomeness departed.
Onwards down the spiral, spun an Artful Dodger
Leading sprite-footed boys to steal for a codger

For that canny Jew Fagin, was no gilded lily
He’d certainly meet his match these days in Swilly.
Are times really different in the year 2012?
Do we evaluate problems too deeply ourselves?

Benefits, tax credits, human rights, the dole
Internet theft and fraud make a great hole
In the shallow pocket of the average worker
You can be in the red but never once a shirker

Because you pay your own way there is no choice
Stand on your own feet but they’ll ignore your voice
For when you say that things aren’t fair
And no government politician seems to care

Your words are swamped by a deafening shout
That condemns the jobless layabout
Whose chance of work grows rapidly slim
In the lottery of life which some never win

Just as in Victorian days, ask only the poor
The question of society having heard of them before
Misfits breed misfits, anger destroys hope
The undefended of Dickens day met a swinging rope

As Bow Street Runners raced to keep the law

The vagabonds denied what the upper classes saw

By exposing Jacob’s Island, a stagnant truth unfurled

In that poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.

©  Ruth Muttlebury 2012 

Thank you very much, Ruth.

LLWG October

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Another packed out table at the Lowestoft Library Writing Group last night, which is always a good thing.  Di, our commander-in-chief, has capped our numbers now so that the group doesn't get too large.  She wants everyone to have time to speak, and the more people there, the less floor time we have.

We started off by reading out our homework on the theme of a local place.  Here is my contribution.  (I cheated a little bit; I adapted my homework from my teen writers, but only because I wrote a politically incorrect piece, and I didn't want the group to think I was a Daily Mail reader.  Nor did I want to offend anyone so I thought it was best to stick with the safer option.)

***

Your Place

You want to be alone.  You walk.  You walk a familiar path to a familiar place.  You used to call it your place.  You thought you were the only person who knew about it.  You take a step onto the beach and stumble over the stones.  You find your footing and direct yourself southwards.  You locate your place.  You feel like you’re sitting on top of the world, sitting on top of a collapsed World War II pillbox, sitting on top of a high sand dune, looking out across Kessingland beach, towards the sea, over the horizon.  The roof balances precariously on a block of wall, with angry looking, tangled support cables and scrap metal protruding at all angles.  You take off your shoes.  Sand has crept in through the fibres of your socks to rest in between your toes.  You empty a flow of golden grains in a pile next to you and run your finger through the sand making yellow swirled patterns on grey.

It’s not too cold, but you wouldn’t care if it was.  You’re alone.  You’re far enough away from the dog walkers and the kite flyers for them not to interfere with your place.  You watch them.  You watch them but they don’t see you.  They’re busy and you don’t exist.  You like it that way.  A rush of wind wraps itself around you and dances into the field behind you.  It takes the blades of grass by the hands and twirls them to a subtle tune.  The waves add to the orchestra as they lap at the shore and crash against the sluice rocks.  A seagull circles the sun, pulling its shadow past your eye line.

The concrete is cool under your thighs.  It becomes more comfortable the longer you sit there.  You drop slowly down to your back and lay your head on your elbow as you wrap your arm behind your neck.  You close your eyes.  You think about your life.  You beat your stress to death with a piece of driftwood until your mind is prioritised.  You relax. 

The fresh air excites your senses.  You breathe it deep into your body, into your soul.  Only a few hundred yards away fresh air has no place, so it plays here.  Only a few hundred yards away you are stifled by traffic fumes and sewage work stenches and greasy café chips.  You bathe in the aroma that confirms that the world isn’t just cars and work and people.  It’s something a lot more than that.

You don’t want to leave but you know you have to.  You tie up your shoelaces as the sun drops over your shoulder.  You push yourself up and off the piece of history beneath you.  You walk away and wonder how long your place will be allowed to stay there.  It must contravene a hundred health and safety laws.  You hope it stays.  You want more people to see it.  You want your place to become their place.

***

We then had two short writing exercises.

***

As you are leaving somewhere alone, the light goes out.  What happens next?

I hold my breath.  I don't turn around.  There's no-one there.  Stop being so stupid.  The lights are probably on a motion timer thing.  I take a step forward.

"Where do you think you're going?"

I don't turn around.  They're not talking to me.

"Oi, where do you think you're going?"

"Home," I say, with a squeak in my voice.

"You don't want to do that."

"I've got to get home.  I'm ..."  My mind goes blank.  I can't think of an excuse.  Why won't my feet move?  Why don't I just run?

"Can't think of an excuse, eh?"

I hear footsteps; the clip clip of high heels on concrete.  A hand touches my shoulder.  I feel sick.  I open my mouth to scream but only air escapes.  What is wrong with me?

"Come back inside."

"I've got to get home."

"You already said that but you don't seem to be going anywhere."

"I've got to ..."

Someone grabs my ankles.  I fall forward.  Someone else lifts up my torso.  It's dark.  I can't see who it is.  My voice has gone home but not taken me with it.  I'm carried back inside and dropped.  I curl up on the floor.  This isn't happening.  I'm at home.  I'm not here.  I close my eyes.  Silence.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!" fills the air.  The lights come on and my eyes open.  The room is full of balloons and streamers and people I don't recognise smiling at me.

"But it's not my birthday though."

***

You're in a room full of people.  You're the only blind person there.  Describe the room.

It's warm.  It's warm because of people, not because of warmth.  People talking and moving and breathing.  I hold my glass to my chest and walk around.  I'm not nosy   I just like listening in on other people's conversations.  Aunt Maggie is telling Joy, our next door neighbour, about her piles and her bunions.  Joy is trying to escape the conversation by saying she hasn't eaten since breakfast and wants to grab something from the buffet before her husband devours it all.  I make my way to the buffet table.  It smells like the only things left are beef and piccalilli sandwiches, prawn cocktail crisps, and a bowl of potato salad that has gone off.  I pass on the snacks and sip my drink.  It's wine.  This is not my drink.  Where's my lager?  Mum brushes past me, leaving lavender lingering around me.  I turn to talk to her but she's gone.  She always has to be the best hostess, even at a wake.  I plonk myself down on a chair by the window.  The breeze is welcome.  I shuffle around on the uncomfortable plastic base but it will always remind me of school assemblies.  Darren and Sharon run past, playing 'it'.  They screech, "You're it", "No, you're it", "You're it", "I'm telling Mum".  Aunt Karen stomps across the floor and booms, "I'm it and you're going to get ready for bed."  I click a button on the side of my watch and a robotic voice tells me that it's nine twenty six.  I'm tired.  It's been a long day.

***

Our homework is to write a 500 word story: A drunken man sits next to you on the bus, thinking he knows you.  He starts to confess 'the truth'.  What is 'the truth'?

Our next session is on Tuesday 13th November 2012.