Yesterday's Brush Strokes

A piece of free verse poetry and a thought on life:

If every day was truly a new beginning

you would start each morning with a blank canvas.

You would paint with untamed inspiration

as your day emerged dripping with vibrant colours.

In reality morning canvases are tainted

with the marks of yesterday’s brush strokes but,

in that moment when sleep clouds your consciousness,

you anticipate a canvas that is virgin clean.

Then you remember

and you get up

and you get on with your day

because that is all there is.

Everyone's Reading

Last week Leicester was alive with reading and writing events for this year's Everyone's Reading Festival. I went to quite a few sessions and thought I'd share some of them with you here.

I attended a poetry writing session run by the talented Helen Mort. Helen inspired us to write portrait poetry which ranged from the personal to the surreal. It was a great evening and I can see why Helen has been the Derbyshire Poet Laureate for the last few years. I'd like to know why Leicester doesn't have a poet laureate.

I visited the Leicester Writers' Club for an open evening. I used to be a regular member in the last century! (I feel so old!) It was lovely to go back and meet old friends and they were all so welcoming. Their evening consisted of a panel of six members who had each chosen the book that inspired them to start writing. More about this when I've told you about the rest of my week.

My signing table at Waterstones Leicester

I was invited to BBC Radio Leicester to talk about The Children's Book of Richard III and my imminent appearance at Waterstones Leicester. It was going to be a proper interview but there was so much happening last week that they didn't manage to squeeze in more than a quick shout-out but it was fun and when I arrived at Waterstones there was a queue waiting for me, so it must have jogged a few memories.

I love to hear the questions that children ask at these bookshop events. I'm humbled by the awe that they express when I tell them that I did, indeed, write the book. I would like to think that my book, and the story I tell them about writing it, inspires some of them to have a go at writing themselves, which brings me back to the topic of 'books that inspire us to write'.

The panel from the Writers' Club said that they had great trouble selecting one book that inspired them to write and I'm not surprised. I've tried to think of one but I'm stumped. I think that the inspiration must have come from a mighty mixture of fiction, non-fiction, poetry and newspaper/magazine articles.

I can come up with several books that influenced me in life. As a child I was totally enthralled by Enid Blyton's Famous Five and Secret Seven. I wanted to have a secret den and plans of trips by boat to deserted islands with lemonade, sandwiches and a scoundrel of a dog to add to the excitement.

When I became a teenager it was Wuthering Heights that had me gripped. I was besotted with the hopelessness of their relationship and the depth of love and indeed hate that this relationship created. It suited and probably fuelled my mood of teenage angst. I spent several years collecting old versions of the book and still have them all on my book shelf.

I'm intrigued to know which books have most inspired you.

How do you make a living as a writer?

I'm really enjoying this series of Leicester writers. There are so many more that I could include but I've restricted it to just one month's-worth. Here is my next visitor, a friend who also shares my passion for therapeutic writing. Today she is talking about the commercial side of the profession, so please give a warm welcome to Maxine Linnell:

Last week I was lying on a couch while a young physiotherapist pressed on a tender part of my back.

‘You’re a writer!’ she said. ‘That’s wonderful. I’ve just finished my first novel, would you like to read it?’

I don’t know what I muttered into the facehole. I think self-preservation came into it. That particular spot is very sensitive.

A recent survey showed that more than 60% of the population wanted to be a writer. Another survey showed that only a few writers earn above the minimum wage. Nicky Morgan MP recently warned children not to go for a career in the arts, as they’d regret it. Facebook is a great source of half-remembered facts.

Writing, or perhaps writing-related work, is now my main source of income, after a lifetime of being a psychotherapist. If you’re after money, I’d endorse Nicky Morgan’s warning. But I need to be a writer, live in the writing world, talk writing, think writing, indulge my huge love of everything writing-related. So I feel very fortunate to have six published books, and as a result to work with writers as friends, and as an editor, mentor, ‘critiquer’ and teacher - even though it’s an unreliable, low-paid, hand-to-mouth income. I’m grateful to all the people who helped me get here, and help me do it. I’m also grateful to the people who choose to work with me, and love finding the gems in their writing.

‘Is it just luck?’ the physio asked me, shifting to another tender spot.

No, it’s very hard work. It’s hard work writing and editing your work till you think it’s going to die but instead it emerges crystal clear. It’s hard work selling it, hard work pushing your skills to their limits and using them, hard work giving time, energy and encouragement to others. And I find it difficult to make time for my own writing in the middle of all this. I don’t think I’m alone in that? And I love libraries so much, I’m putting a lot of unpaid time into keeping Rothley’s little library alive. And most of what I’m doing towards that is - writing.

 

Maxine Linnell

Maxine’s books are published by Five Leaves, A&C Black and Real Reads. 

Currently she has poems in The Book of Love and Loss, and the Soundswrite anthology to be published in October. 

From September she’s teaching in Leicester with Writing East Midlands and the WEA.

www.maxinelinnell.com

www.rothleycommunitylibrary.co.uk


Debbie White will be my next Leicester Writer Visitor.

Stories That Stay in Your Head - Emma Lee

An August Blog Event - Leicester Writers

I've known Emma for almost as long as I've been writing and I've always admired her use of language in her poetry. It is, therefore, with much pleasure that I welcome Emma to my blog:

I’ve always loved listening to stories. Before I could write, I built houses with toy bricks and invented stories for the people who might have lived there. Once I could write, I grew to love the process of focusing on a specific aspect or theme in a story and condensing it into a poem. Most of my poems focus on other people’s stories, often inspired by news stories. Many of the poems in, “Mimicking a Snowdrop” look at how the past coexists with the present, for example in the same flat, the presence of a Blitz survivor is sensed by a modern day shift worker.

Some stories stay with you long after you’ve finished reading the newspaper or closed the book. My third collection “Ghosts in the Desert” explores this, beginning with ghosts from news of wars, the aftermath of tsunamis, bombings, or ill-served by political decisions of others, and how these haunt survivors. One sequence explores fan fiction, written by fans who find characters from films staying with them long after the credits have rolled. 

We need stories to help keep memories alive and give us the opportunity to learn from past mistakes.

Emma Lee

Emma Lee is a poet and reviewer. 

She blogs at http://emmalee1.wordpress.com and has published three poetry collections: 

“Ghosts in the Desert” (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2015),

“Mimicking a Snowdrop” (Thynks Press, 2014) and 

“Yellow Torchlight and the Blues” (Original Plus, 2004). 

She reviews for The Journal, London Grip and Sabotage Reviews.

Maxine Linnell will be my next Leicester Writer Visitor.

It's only a teddy bear!

(For those who view my blog through non-formatting readers, the following is a poem - OK, son?!)

It’s ok to chat with a cat, so I’ve heard,

Cause you know that a cat can hear every word

But you don’t want to talk with inanimate things,

Like your teddy, whose stuffing is held in with string.

Just a minute! A cat doesn’t care about words.

He would much rather chase after dormice or birds.

The teddy, however, absorbs all you say.

He collects up your words in his kapok each day.

So your teddy bear holds all your wishes and thoughts.

He knows all of your hopes, all those demons you’ve fought.

Please ignore those who say he’s a toy. It’s not true.

He’s the one true custodian of all that is you.

Don’t you just love your teddy bears? 

Here are a few of mine:

Is it Spring?

(For readers accessing via their phones the following is written in poetry form...

...in truth, the above message is for my son as his reader doesn't show up line returns!)

Meteorological Spring I

Each March-time it comes as a shivery shock

To be told that it’s Spring once again.

The wind has a bite like an angered guard dog

And the forecast says snowfall, not rain.

But if Spring starts in March then I think it quite strange, the way

Summer time starts in mid June.

Because June also hosts England’s Midsummer’s day

Which means Autumn will come along soon.

Then the flowers will fade and the birds will take flight,

Clichéd mellow mists turn to hoar frost.

We’ll be plunged into Winter, the month of no light

With another year’s hopes and dreams lost.

(To those who have told me off for giving it a negative ending, it rhymes with frost and besides, there are always a few hopes and dreams not realised when the chimes ring out for the new year!)

View from the kitchen window

Meteorological Spring II

How can it be Spring?

The wind’s biting harder than a grisly guard dog.

My toes are tender red,

My fingers pinched white.

Who says blossom is ready to burst?

I see no bulging buds – only bare bone branches.

The meteorologists must have got it wrong.

It’s too soon for Spring.

This year’s Meteorological Spring was on 1^st March.

My body has lost all its zoom

I saw an advert on Twitter today for an intensive Lindy Hop/Jive session. I'd love to do that but I fear my body wouldn't hold up so I wrote one of my poems instead:

Where are my glasses? It makes me feel sad.
As a youngster my vision was great.
I’d thread needles for Mum and read small print for Dad.
Now those tasks get me into a state.

In the old days I never kept losing my things
And I knew why I’d entered a room
And I’d skip down the road like my feet were on springs.
Now my body has lost all its zoom!

I can’t keep up to date with today’s trendy youth.
And technology changes so fast.
Though I like modern music, to tell you the truth
I’d much rather play songs from the past.

So I live in what is, but I dream of what was.
It’s a common thing. That's what I'm told.
It’s expected. It’s normal. It happens because
We just can’t stop ourselves growing old.

Peeling Potatoes

I’ve opened a present, a bottle of Schnapps

My favourite, Archers, peach flavour

I’m peeling potatoes and just dare not lapse

Cause my roasties are something to savour.

I’ve eaten four mince pies laced liberally with rum.

I’m still peeling but feel rather weepy.

So I've gulped down some whisky. It's warming my tum,

But potatoes are making me sleepy.

They’re inside watching telly. That’s fine. It’s ok.

Come the adverts, they all want a cuppa.

It’s a Peach Schnapps for me. I feel better that way

When I’m peeling potatoes for supper.

I’ve made them all tea and they’re watching a play

So I’m peeling potatoes like crazy

But the kitchen is starting to gently sway

And I’m feeling incredibly lazy.

I’ll just rest for a while. I’ll slide onto the floor

I know one thing without any doubt,

I’m sorry. I can’t peel potatoes no more

Cause I fear I’m about to pass…