"On the radio, the shouts and cheers and high-pitched whoops have finally subsided to allow Big Ben the space to toll the hour. It feels almost religious, this ritual pause. You can sense the crowd waiting, listening, a mass drawing in of collective breath as those ancient bells ring out with dark, metallic gravity. They seem to grow louder with each peal. They seem to go on endlessly, as if marking so much more than twelve o’clock ..."
From 'The Dawning', to be published January 23rd!!!
:-D
Wishing Everyone an Excellent and Exciting New Year - may 2010 bring you all that you desire, and more xx
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
Monday, 21 December 2009
Festive Story Time
This crept out when I was supposed to be writing about Other Things. It’s a sort of story. And sort of Christmassy (well, there’s snow). I hope you like it.
Charlie, in the Snow
The snow is falling, white and wet, in the way of snow. I watch it settle in her eyelashes and in her hair. I watch her watching it.
My little sister. Charlie.
Big, pale, blue eyes (the blue of winter shadows, the blue caught beneath thick ice). Pink, parted, cupid lips. Just seven years old as she stands there amidst the sparkle, with her small, soft arms lifted towards the blackness beyond it all, her mittens dangling from her wrists.
The mitten-strings are invisible so that the gloves themselves appear to float alone like some magic trick. Small, lilac clouds. And I notice how Charlie is swaying, just perceptibly, in her moon-boots. I stare at her woolly knees and at her blond hair and her rosy cheeks and I think how people are right; she is truly “Angelic”. She doesn’t belong in this world; everyone agrees.
Ever since she learnt to talk, she has told us herself: God is here. Inside me.
Of course she was the first to know. Mom never told her to say such things, despite what certain folk imagine. The truth, I think, is that Mom is actually a little scared of Charlie, underneath. But then aren’t we all a bit afraid of her in our secret, separate ways? And that’s right, isn’t? Shouldn’t holiness, after all, be at least partly frightening? Awesome – I think, and I don’t use that word the way that other kids would.
As I stare at Charlie, I try to see it, that hard place, that holiness inside her. A thread of burning ice amidst that softness. It’s probably clearest when she’s Healing, whether she’s illuminated by the angled spotlights and generous candle-dazzle surrounding our Church’s altar, or caught within the smaller, nervy flicker and fug of a Chosen sickroom. Perhaps you might glimpse the Truth inside her then, as she lays on her small, splayed hands. It’s there in the pinched concentration of her doll-like features, in the increased frosting of her gaze. A kind of ghost-light, which further enhances that wintry blue, while the Uncured groan and shudder underneath her. When they finally give in, weeping, to her shivering touch.
It’s because you can see Him moving through her, Mom says. His Holy Spirit.
But I can’t see that coldness in Charlie now. That icy flame is nowhere close.
Right now, with her head flung back and her gold hair pouring and glimmering past her fallen hood – right now, as she catches flakes like feathers on her lapping tongue, my kid-sister looks like any child. Like any seven year old, lost simply to the magic of snow, to that dizzying, obliterating tumble. And usually, even when she’s not Healing or Praying, when she’s not ablaze, but meant to be simply playing, or resting, Charlie’s expression remains careful, guarded. It’s an old-lady look, almost – but not tonight. Tonight, she stands gawping and open before the whirling sky.
Dumbstruck, I think, and maybe that’s why I dare to bend to my knees amidst the wetness and scoop up a handful, packing it tight against my already-stinging, blotching palms.
And “Charlie!” I call in a teasing voice, as if this is something I always do, something quite natural to us – as I draw back my arm and throw.
The snowball hits her squarely in the middle of her back. It drops in satisfying cream-pie strings from the ends of her shining hair. And I’m immediately gasping, bent with laughter at my own audacity; I’m helpless as she turns, still caught in a kind of halting, jarring wonder, towards me, her blue eyes wider than ever.
“Hey,” she calls, “Hey you, Sammy!”
But through the stars, through the shattering glass piercing my own hot, wet vision, I see that her flushed face remains open, that her red mouth remains open; she’s grinning back – and then she’s crouching against the thick white, packing her own ball in return. And she doesn’t pause to pull her mittens on, she’s too determined. She’s going to get me too – except that then, when she straightens, something happens. Her shoulders hunch as she lifts her face and sees not just me, I understand that – but the Church looming over us, its relentless light glaring in garish patches at my back. Painting trapdoor panels in the settled snow between us.
I watch Charlie’s hand fall open. A small pink starfish. The laughter dries on my clumsy, chapping lips and my mouth feels full of stones as the whiteness slithers from her fingers.
And suddenly I see that there is perhaps nothing illuminating her gaze except that yellow from the Church windows –
Nonetheless, I bow my head as she pads past, her precise, little footsteps almost silent as she returns inside to save us all.
By Megan Taylor, December 2009
_____________________________
Charlie, in the Snow
The snow is falling, white and wet, in the way of snow. I watch it settle in her eyelashes and in her hair. I watch her watching it.
My little sister. Charlie.
Big, pale, blue eyes (the blue of winter shadows, the blue caught beneath thick ice). Pink, parted, cupid lips. Just seven years old as she stands there amidst the sparkle, with her small, soft arms lifted towards the blackness beyond it all, her mittens dangling from her wrists.
The mitten-strings are invisible so that the gloves themselves appear to float alone like some magic trick. Small, lilac clouds. And I notice how Charlie is swaying, just perceptibly, in her moon-boots. I stare at her woolly knees and at her blond hair and her rosy cheeks and I think how people are right; she is truly “Angelic”. She doesn’t belong in this world; everyone agrees.
Ever since she learnt to talk, she has told us herself: God is here. Inside me.
Of course she was the first to know. Mom never told her to say such things, despite what certain folk imagine. The truth, I think, is that Mom is actually a little scared of Charlie, underneath. But then aren’t we all a bit afraid of her in our secret, separate ways? And that’s right, isn’t? Shouldn’t holiness, after all, be at least partly frightening? Awesome – I think, and I don’t use that word the way that other kids would.
As I stare at Charlie, I try to see it, that hard place, that holiness inside her. A thread of burning ice amidst that softness. It’s probably clearest when she’s Healing, whether she’s illuminated by the angled spotlights and generous candle-dazzle surrounding our Church’s altar, or caught within the smaller, nervy flicker and fug of a Chosen sickroom. Perhaps you might glimpse the Truth inside her then, as she lays on her small, splayed hands. It’s there in the pinched concentration of her doll-like features, in the increased frosting of her gaze. A kind of ghost-light, which further enhances that wintry blue, while the Uncured groan and shudder underneath her. When they finally give in, weeping, to her shivering touch.
It’s because you can see Him moving through her, Mom says. His Holy Spirit.
But I can’t see that coldness in Charlie now. That icy flame is nowhere close.
Right now, with her head flung back and her gold hair pouring and glimmering past her fallen hood – right now, as she catches flakes like feathers on her lapping tongue, my kid-sister looks like any child. Like any seven year old, lost simply to the magic of snow, to that dizzying, obliterating tumble. And usually, even when she’s not Healing or Praying, when she’s not ablaze, but meant to be simply playing, or resting, Charlie’s expression remains careful, guarded. It’s an old-lady look, almost – but not tonight. Tonight, she stands gawping and open before the whirling sky.
Dumbstruck, I think, and maybe that’s why I dare to bend to my knees amidst the wetness and scoop up a handful, packing it tight against my already-stinging, blotching palms.
And “Charlie!” I call in a teasing voice, as if this is something I always do, something quite natural to us – as I draw back my arm and throw.
The snowball hits her squarely in the middle of her back. It drops in satisfying cream-pie strings from the ends of her shining hair. And I’m immediately gasping, bent with laughter at my own audacity; I’m helpless as she turns, still caught in a kind of halting, jarring wonder, towards me, her blue eyes wider than ever.
“Hey,” she calls, “Hey you, Sammy!”
But through the stars, through the shattering glass piercing my own hot, wet vision, I see that her flushed face remains open, that her red mouth remains open; she’s grinning back – and then she’s crouching against the thick white, packing her own ball in return. And she doesn’t pause to pull her mittens on, she’s too determined. She’s going to get me too – except that then, when she straightens, something happens. Her shoulders hunch as she lifts her face and sees not just me, I understand that – but the Church looming over us, its relentless light glaring in garish patches at my back. Painting trapdoor panels in the settled snow between us.
I watch Charlie’s hand fall open. A small pink starfish. The laughter dries on my clumsy, chapping lips and my mouth feels full of stones as the whiteness slithers from her fingers.
And suddenly I see that there is perhaps nothing illuminating her gaze except that yellow from the Church windows –
Nonetheless, I bow my head as she pads past, her precise, little footsteps almost silent as she returns inside to save us all.
By Megan Taylor, December 2009
_____________________________
Monday, 7 December 2009
The Fear from Here
The rather lovely and talented Shanta Everington has written an article over at 'The View From Here' in which she tackles the prickly and interesting issue of a writer's fear when it comes to actually being read.
As well as discussing her own post-publication nerves, Shanta also discusses the experience with Anne Brooke, Fiona Robyn, and myself (not that I'm ever really scared of readers or reviewers - honest).
The feature can be found here.
As well as discussing her own post-publication nerves, Shanta also discusses the experience with Anne Brooke, Fiona Robyn, and myself (not that I'm ever really scared of readers or reviewers - honest).
The feature can be found here.
Friday, 4 December 2009
Sneak Preview
: )
And last night, I read a pre-launch extract at Nottingham Writers' Studio, alongside Steven Wilcoxson, who was promoting his fascinating debut, 'Make Less Strangers'. Everyone was hugely lovely and supportive. It was a really fun night.
And during the next couple of weeks, I'll be sent my final proofs. And we have a tentative launch date - 23rd January 2010 (which happens to be the day before my birthday)!
And it is nearly Christmas!!
I'm so happy I think my head might actually fall off.
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
The Dawning
My second novel, recently re-titled ‘The Dawning’ (originally ‘Before the Light’), is to be published by innovative, new Nottingham press, Weathervane, in January 2010!
We signed contracts last week. I’m so happy I could pop.
I have many people to thank, and lots to do – January doesn’t seem very far away at all. But for now, here’s a brief outline of ‘The Dawning’:
It is New Year’s Eve, a time for fresh beginnings - but for each member of the fragmenting Haywood family, this night could mark the end.
With mother Stella battling depression and father Philip determined to escape, eleven-year-old Zachary and his teenage sister Nicola are forced to fend for themselves when confronted by their own worst fears.
Set against a backdrop of wintry beauty on the edge of a Peak District town, ‘The Dawning’ explores the darkness that can arise even at the heart of a family, over the course of a single devastating night.
We signed contracts last week. I’m so happy I could pop.
I have many people to thank, and lots to do – January doesn’t seem very far away at all. But for now, here’s a brief outline of ‘The Dawning’:
It is New Year’s Eve, a time for fresh beginnings - but for each member of the fragmenting Haywood family, this night could mark the end.
With mother Stella battling depression and father Philip determined to escape, eleven-year-old Zachary and his teenage sister Nicola are forced to fend for themselves when confronted by their own worst fears.
Set against a backdrop of wintry beauty on the edge of a Peak District town, ‘The Dawning’ explores the darkness that can arise even at the heart of a family, over the course of a single devastating night.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
Fosseway Writers
Last Thursday, we drove out of Nottingham through shrieks and bangs and bonfire smoke. The night air smelt deliciously charred, even after the fireworks were reduced to crackles in the distance, a glimpse of glitter beyond the woods - even as the landscape emptied, darkening and deepening all around us. During the journey, we must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. There didn't seem to be any road signs, but there were a great many trees . . .
It was the perfect beginning to an evening spent discussing horror stories.
After we had finished being lost (I am indeed highly skilled at getting lost) I was welcomed with coffee and biscuits by the bright and lovely people of Fosseway Writers group. I'd had the honor of judging their horror short story competition and I'd been invited along to their meeting to announce the winners. It was a very enjoyable evening, great to put faces and names to all those words and to hear the entries brought to vivid, unsettling (undead) life as they were read aloud. The whole judging experience, though very tough, was hugely rewarding and I felt truly privileged to have been involved.
While the night might have pressed cold and black against the car window, the reception from Fosseway writers couldn't have been warmer. I love being around other people who love writing - it's so inspiring. Thank you tons.
It was the perfect beginning to an evening spent discussing horror stories.
After we had finished being lost (I am indeed highly skilled at getting lost) I was welcomed with coffee and biscuits by the bright and lovely people of Fosseway Writers group. I'd had the honor of judging their horror short story competition and I'd been invited along to their meeting to announce the winners. It was a very enjoyable evening, great to put faces and names to all those words and to hear the entries brought to vivid, unsettling (undead) life as they were read aloud. The whole judging experience, though very tough, was hugely rewarding and I felt truly privileged to have been involved.
While the night might have pressed cold and black against the car window, the reception from Fosseway writers couldn't have been warmer. I love being around other people who love writing - it's so inspiring. Thank you tons.
Friday, 30 October 2009
In Celebration of Hallowe'en
I’m unleashing the opening to my most recent novel, ‘The Lives of Ghosts'
There were ghosts at the Loch House long before we arrived, with ours.
Marie told me about them towards the end of the journey. After nine hours behind the wheel and all that silence, her voice didn’t sound right. It was hollow and tinny and seemed to scrape at the air trapped between us. Air that had smelt of melting rubber for the entire four hundred mile drive.
“There have always been stories about the place,” she said. “Sightings of shadowy figures and sudden lights. Strange noises in the night. For a while, we even thought about including them in the brochure. Some people like that kind of thing.”
Looking back on it now that I’m older, I imagine that she was simply talking for the sake of talking, chatting to ward off the panic as the reality of what she was doing finally started to set in. I can clearly remember how her eyes flicked at me in the rear-view mirror, a dark, wet flash and then away, and how her shoulders had risen; she was practically cowering in her seat. Clinging to that wheel. And certainly not thinking straight to say the things she said.
“There have always been stories about the place,” she said. “Sightings of shadowy figures and sudden lights. Strange noises in the night. For a while, we even thought about including them in the brochure. Some people like that kind of thing.”
Looking back on it now that I’m older, I imagine that she was simply talking for the sake of talking, chatting to ward off the panic as the reality of what she was doing finally started to set in. I can clearly remember how her eyes flicked at me in the rear-view mirror, a dark, wet flash and then away, and how her shoulders had risen; she was practically cowering in her seat. Clinging to that wheel. And certainly not thinking straight to say the things she said.
. . .
If you’d like to continue reading, or want to find out more about 'The Lives of Ghosts', please visit my website, where (for a limited period, as they say, whoever they are) you can read the complete first chapter.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
Thaw Blogsplash
Fiona Robyn is going to blog her next novel, Thaw, starting on the 1st of March next year. The novel follows 32 year old Ruth’s diary over three months as she decides whether or not to carry on living.
To help spread the word she’s organising a Blogsplash, where blogs will publish the first page of Ruth’s diary simultaneously (and a link to the blog).
She’s aiming to get 1000 blogs involved – if you’d be interested in joining in, email her at fiona@fionarobyn.com or find out more information here.
Monday, 19 October 2009
Competition Ramblings
A few weeks ago, I received a package in the post. Feeling the shape and weight of it and scrutinising the postmark, I was pretty certain it was the package I’d been waiting for. A strange new nerviness descended. The parcel was tightly sealed, bubble-wrapped, and by the time I’d finished juggling scissors and old sellotape and finally broken it open, I was practically popping with excitement, myself.
It contained exactly what I’d hoped.
A pile of brand new, as-yet-unpublished short stories, each neatly printed, each writer anonymous.
I had been asked to judge a local writers’ group annual short story competition. The terrifying responsibility of the task hit me right alongside the enormous privilege. But even before I started reading, I was grinning from ear to ear.
I love competitions.
I’ve had stories short-listed in a few, including the Asham and London Writers. And I’m pretty sure that having How We Were Lost placed second in the Yeovil Prize helped to draw it to the attention of certain publishers. But I also believe competitions are hugely rewarding even without the placings or the prizes. They’re great for the discipline of constraints and regulations, and for their deadlines, and perhaps for pushing writers into attempting something new.
Tonto Books have recently announced the results of their latest short story competition, judged by the marvellous Caroline Smailes. The finalists’ anthology, ‘Even More Tonto Short Stories’ looks like it’s going to be a fantabulous collection and I wanted to add my congratulations to all the winners, but most especially to some highly talented, bloggy friends, Shanta Everington, Nik Jones and Fiona Robyn.
And to those who didn’t quite make it this time (ahem) – Congratulations too for giving it a go (-:
It contained exactly what I’d hoped.
A pile of brand new, as-yet-unpublished short stories, each neatly printed, each writer anonymous.
I had been asked to judge a local writers’ group annual short story competition. The terrifying responsibility of the task hit me right alongside the enormous privilege. But even before I started reading, I was grinning from ear to ear.
I love competitions.
I’ve had stories short-listed in a few, including the Asham and London Writers. And I’m pretty sure that having How We Were Lost placed second in the Yeovil Prize helped to draw it to the attention of certain publishers. But I also believe competitions are hugely rewarding even without the placings or the prizes. They’re great for the discipline of constraints and regulations, and for their deadlines, and perhaps for pushing writers into attempting something new.
Tonto Books have recently announced the results of their latest short story competition, judged by the marvellous Caroline Smailes. The finalists’ anthology, ‘Even More Tonto Short Stories’ looks like it’s going to be a fantabulous collection and I wanted to add my congratulations to all the winners, but most especially to some highly talented, bloggy friends, Shanta Everington, Nik Jones and Fiona Robyn.
And to those who didn’t quite make it this time (ahem) – Congratulations too for giving it a go (-:
Friday, 9 October 2009
Nik's Blog
The very generous and talented Nik Perring has invited me over to his place for a spot of mild interrogation (it was fun).
Thank you Nik!
Thank you Nik!
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
After the Circus . . .
We did it!
And I loved it
So I'd like to say some enormous THANK YOUs
Firstly, thank you to awesome, award winning author Nicola Monaghan, who was not only generous enough to share her reading table, but also helped so much beforehand, offering encouragement about my writing, easing my nerves and ensuring that our pieces worked so well together.
Thank you too to LeftLion for organising such a brilliant, buzzing event, to Nottingham Writers Studio for all their support, and to all the lovely, lovely people who came along to listen.
You're all fabulous.
THANK YOU TONS
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Roll up! Roll up!
I've been invited to read this Saturday at Leftlion's fantabulous (Canning) Circus Extravaganza , an incredible day-into-night of FREE live music, art and spoken word in the heart of Nottingham!!
I'll be reading (possibly from second novel 'Before the Light') alongside the amazingly talented Nicola Monaghan and just before a whole dazzling parade of poets.
The literature events begin at 4pm in the upstairs gallery of the Hand and Heart
Would be marvellous to see you there!
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
Obsessions
Rachel has 'tagged' my blog and given it an award! Thank you Rachel (I hope I'm doing this right).I've been challenged to list 5 obsessions. Since my personal obsessions (wine, chocolate, daydreaming etc) aren't very exciting, I thought I'd offer 5 obsessions in my writing instead (hope that's ok) so here goes
Some features that tend to haunt my stories are -
secrets
smells
breaking points
light
mothers
hmmmm.
Moving swiftly on, I'm to pass on the award and challenge to 5 others, so stand by
Anne
Annie
Shanta
Nik P
Nik J
Sunday, 6 September 2009
Playing Drafts (3)
He's reading my novel.
I wanted him to. I asked him to.
It's freshly printed and neatly hole-punched. It sits like homework in its brand new folder. All the latest edits are in place.
The pages are crisp and clean and as-yet unscribbled on. I'm ridiculously aware of their slow slide, their rustle.
I can't be in the same room as him. I'll start watching his face - I might not be able to stop myself from asking.
And so I hover nearby, making coffee, And then more coffee. I pretend to think about the book I'm reading and the other writing I have planned. But -
He has been reading for almost two hours.
Eventually I go up to our bedroom. I rummage through the heaving shelves there and then lie on top of the covers and turn pages determinedly.
I try not to picture him doing exactly the same downstairs.
I wanted him to. I asked him to.
It's freshly printed and neatly hole-punched. It sits like homework in its brand new folder. All the latest edits are in place.
The pages are crisp and clean and as-yet unscribbled on. I'm ridiculously aware of their slow slide, their rustle.
I can't be in the same room as him. I'll start watching his face - I might not be able to stop myself from asking.
And so I hover nearby, making coffee, And then more coffee. I pretend to think about the book I'm reading and the other writing I have planned. But -
He has been reading for almost two hours.
Eventually I go up to our bedroom. I rummage through the heaving shelves there and then lie on top of the covers and turn pages determinedly.
I try not to picture him doing exactly the same downstairs.
Sunday, 23 August 2009
look what Annie did!
Well, I've just returned once more, a little bit sad and filled with longing already, to find that the fabulous and talented Annie Clarkson has given me a lovely review on her excellent forgetting the time blog.
Thank you Annie for cheering me right up (-:
Thank you Annie for cheering me right up (-:
Sunday, 2 August 2009
Travel Broadens the Mind (or something)
I've been away to the Land of Dreamy Dreams.
It was amazing!!
Aside from having a generally fabulous, funny and fascinating time, the trip released so many imagination triggers that I've returned with a head ringing with stories.
Plus my usual chasing-the-dream philosophy, alongside my reading and writing appetite, may have grown even bigger.
In fact, I feel voracious (besides which, I love that word) not so much in terms of twitting/blogging/promoting internet thangs - I simply want to write and write and write.
So please excuse me if I stay quiet for a little longer.
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
lucky
It’s been quite a weekend.
On Friday afternoon, I received my MA results. And I’ve passed. With Distinction!!!!
Yay!
I have loved studying creative writing so much. I’ve learnt tons, read some absolutely brilliant original fiction and met many wonderful, supportive and inspiring people.
Having the actual marks has been like adding extra delicious fudge icing to an already lush and chocolate filled cake. Or something (in case you haven’t guessed, I’m very happy)
And then, on Saturday, I ran my workshop at Lowdham Book Festival.
Yay!
We had a full house and everyone who took part was wonderful. I was a bit nervous beforehand, but then there was a lovely moment when I looked around at all these writing people and I could almost feel the crackle of words flying about their heads. Thank you so much to everyone who came along.
And then, I was whisked away for a celebration involving cocktails and cabaret.
I’m still grinning.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)