Hi everyone,
I'm delighted to have just received two CDs with recordings of the poems that we, Winchcombe poets, have recorded for Radio Winchcombe. The first CD consists of readings from our anthology which was brought out for the local festival, and the second is a recording of our last workshop, with readings of several poems from each of us, and a bit of discussion as well. (This will be broadcast next week, I think.) I've published a fair amount of poetry over the years but much of it was private, so I didn't publish it. I am now bringing out poetry I wrote 20 years ago!
I am using my poetry in the play that I am writing at present. It is about the life of Arctic explorer, Robert Peary and I hope it will be one of a trilogy of Polar plays. I have been reading for it (and the others) for years, but I am still in the early stages of the writing. I don't want to give too much away, but I can say that poetry plays a large role in it. I was very disappointed by Howard Brenton's 'Anne Boleyn' because it was like Shakespeare (a history play), but without any poetry. I feel that the time has come to bring drama and poetry back close together again, and this is what I hope to do. Slightly scary, but it's like me to set myself difficult tasks!
Some of you will know I have been through an awful lot in recent months. My sister was diagnosed with cancer at Easter, and, a few weeks later, my mother had a bad fall. I also had to deal with a situation where there were many misunderstandings, and the difficulty of communicating (in a formal setting) made me quite unhappy, as I was afraid I was causing pain to the other person. I do view all of life as a learning experience however, and am lucky that I can transmute my own experiences into something more beautiful. I hope that other people will think so too. :)
My play,'Investigation: Haunted House' is still doing well, and I have written to an agent to see if Mark and I can get representation for the science plays and novels, and - of course - my other novels and scripts. As I'm the kind of writer who tends to let things sit on the computer it would be a real help if she thought she could represent me! I also have help from Emma who is staying with me, and will be organising my talks, workshops and readings. She was so good when she came for work experience that I couldn't let her go.
That's it for now, folks. I have to get back to the Arctic...
Pippa xx
Thursday 28 June 2012
Wednesday 13 June 2012
GHOSTS in my stories
Hi everyone,
I've decided that we need a complete change today, so I'm going to write about the supernatural. This is something that I seem to keep writing about. Some of you may remember a short story of mine called 'A Horse Called Sciolto' which was serialised in Aquila Childrens' Magazine. I'm posting an extract from it here:
'Are you sure you want to come?' whispered Abika.
Zoe hoped her friend wouldn't notice she was trembling. 'Of course I do.'
Just as she spoke the sound of hooves began to echo in the little room, coming closer and closer. Immediately they picked up their riding helmets and began to tiptoe down the stairs to the front door; then they let themselves out.
Sciolto was there; rearing up with his hooves, striking at the empty air. He whinnied loudly when he saw them. Zoe was amazed it didn't wake Abika's parents but they didn't seem to hear a thing.
Suddenly Sciolto stopped and stood quite still. Abika went to stroke him then let out a shout of astonishment. 'He feels quite solid!'
Zoe moved to touch him too. His coat was soft and warm.
'I think he wants us to climb on,' said Abika.
Sciolto blew emphatically through his nostrils as if to say, 'Of course I do.' Next minute they were riding away, with Abika clinging to his mane and Zoe's arms tightly round Abika's waist.
Sciolto moved very fast but it was the smoothest ride that the girls had ever had. Sometimes they wondered if his feet were actually touching the ground.
When they had covered a few miles Sciolto slowed. He began to trot deeper and deeper into the woods, lifting his feet carefully to avoid the tangles of undergrowth.
In a clearing he stopped and whinnied loudly.
'That sounded like an order,' said Abika.
'Shall we get down?'
Sciolto whinnied again, as if telling them to stop messing about. 'Where do you think we are?' asked Abika as she swung herself down.
'I haven't a clue. We must have come miles!'
Zoe turned to see that Sciolto was pawing at the ground, pulling the earth away, as if looking for something. She nudged Abika and pointed at him quietly. He seemed quite agitated and was digging his hooves in deeper and deeper.
'What on earth is he doing?!' whispered Abika.
Just at that moment they both saw what he was doing. The ground was littered with bones, hidden just below the surface. Sciolto was uncovering them.
'What are they?' Zoe saw that Abika was shaking now. 'Whose bones can they be?'
Dara! That was the end of the first part and readers had to wait a whole month for the next part. What you may be interested to know is that I am psychic, as are many people in my family. I have never seen a ghost horse, but I have seen ghosts, or spirits as I prefer to think of them. Maybe one day I'll tell you a story about something that happened to me.
'Investigation: Haunted House', the play and novel are pure imagination, but we did have an old house by our sports' field when I was at junior school, and everybody said it was haunted. I never saw a ghost, but then I didn't go in with a science kit like Jenny and Ben did in the play! (See earlier blogs for information about this... It's touring schools at present). If there are any children reading this let me know if you like ghost stories, so I know whether I should write any more. :)
Another thing that interests me is whether people who are in love can usually read each others' minds. I'd like to write lots of stories about things like this.
Pippa
I've decided that we need a complete change today, so I'm going to write about the supernatural. This is something that I seem to keep writing about. Some of you may remember a short story of mine called 'A Horse Called Sciolto' which was serialised in Aquila Childrens' Magazine. I'm posting an extract from it here:
'Are you sure you want to come?' whispered Abika.
Zoe hoped her friend wouldn't notice she was trembling. 'Of course I do.'
Just as she spoke the sound of hooves began to echo in the little room, coming closer and closer. Immediately they picked up their riding helmets and began to tiptoe down the stairs to the front door; then they let themselves out.
Sciolto was there; rearing up with his hooves, striking at the empty air. He whinnied loudly when he saw them. Zoe was amazed it didn't wake Abika's parents but they didn't seem to hear a thing.
Suddenly Sciolto stopped and stood quite still. Abika went to stroke him then let out a shout of astonishment. 'He feels quite solid!'
Zoe moved to touch him too. His coat was soft and warm.
'I think he wants us to climb on,' said Abika.
Sciolto blew emphatically through his nostrils as if to say, 'Of course I do.' Next minute they were riding away, with Abika clinging to his mane and Zoe's arms tightly round Abika's waist.
Sciolto moved very fast but it was the smoothest ride that the girls had ever had. Sometimes they wondered if his feet were actually touching the ground.
When they had covered a few miles Sciolto slowed. He began to trot deeper and deeper into the woods, lifting his feet carefully to avoid the tangles of undergrowth.
In a clearing he stopped and whinnied loudly.
'That sounded like an order,' said Abika.
'Shall we get down?'
Sciolto whinnied again, as if telling them to stop messing about. 'Where do you think we are?' asked Abika as she swung herself down.
'I haven't a clue. We must have come miles!'
Zoe turned to see that Sciolto was pawing at the ground, pulling the earth away, as if looking for something. She nudged Abika and pointed at him quietly. He seemed quite agitated and was digging his hooves in deeper and deeper.
'What on earth is he doing?!' whispered Abika.
Just at that moment they both saw what he was doing. The ground was littered with bones, hidden just below the surface. Sciolto was uncovering them.
'What are they?' Zoe saw that Abika was shaking now. 'Whose bones can they be?'
Dara! That was the end of the first part and readers had to wait a whole month for the next part. What you may be interested to know is that I am psychic, as are many people in my family. I have never seen a ghost horse, but I have seen ghosts, or spirits as I prefer to think of them. Maybe one day I'll tell you a story about something that happened to me.
'Investigation: Haunted House', the play and novel are pure imagination, but we did have an old house by our sports' field when I was at junior school, and everybody said it was haunted. I never saw a ghost, but then I didn't go in with a science kit like Jenny and Ben did in the play! (See earlier blogs for information about this... It's touring schools at present). If there are any children reading this let me know if you like ghost stories, so I know whether I should write any more. :)
Another thing that interests me is whether people who are in love can usually read each others' minds. I'd like to write lots of stories about things like this.
Pippa
Monday 11 June 2012
Here I am, back again. I think Saturday's post was a bit self indulgent, so now I'm going to make it worse by adding more! :D The thing that I didn't say, which is probably the most interesting, is that whenever I feel down (breaking apart, smashed up kind of down) I feel most aware of my inability to communicate. This, for a writer, sounds extraordinary, but I suspect my drive to write came out of this personality problem. I don't know why I am so bad at communicating. (If I did I probably wouldn't have a problem!) Maybe it's because I say too much? Or maybe it's because of shyness and low self esteem, which make me say the wrong things? Maybe it's because my perspective on the world is unusual? Or maybe it's a result of my head injuries (was I this bad before them?) Or maybe it's simply because I don't have much practicality about things?
What is certain is that people always get the wrong idea about what I am trying to say. I don't want to ramble on too much today, but I'd be very interested to know if other writers have the same issues.
Next time, I promise you, we're back to my work. In fact, here's a virelai ancien to keep you going. (It was of course written during the very dark time I spoke about on Saturday):
A Bubble
In air that gives me lift
I poise, as is my gift;
A bubble on the top
Of dark that seems to shift
To catch a spirit's drift,
And pull it to the drop:
I rise again and stop
And shimmer still, but not
Without my load of light:
And once again I flop
And tremble to a stop
In soul of awful night.
The sky is sometimes bright
But horror stalks my flight
And stable things I miss.
I hover out of sight
And wonder if I might
Break up in the abyss.
If you like this it can be found in an anthology of Winchcombe poets which has just come out, and also has several other of my poems. It reminds me of another thing that I think must account for a lot of my communication problems: I think in metaphor and symbol a great deal. For me the truest level of communication is the symbolic. I know this is unusual. Someone once told me I was a True Poet as I experience all of my life as poetry. I suspect that it's just because my grandparents were cousins and something unusual must have doubled up. (Haha, just inbred then?!) So... this is me being brief :D. I wonder if any of this makes any sense to anyone? Am I communicating?...
What is certain is that people always get the wrong idea about what I am trying to say. I don't want to ramble on too much today, but I'd be very interested to know if other writers have the same issues.
Next time, I promise you, we're back to my work. In fact, here's a virelai ancien to keep you going. (It was of course written during the very dark time I spoke about on Saturday):
A Bubble
In air that gives me lift
I poise, as is my gift;
A bubble on the top
Of dark that seems to shift
To catch a spirit's drift,
And pull it to the drop:
I rise again and stop
And shimmer still, but not
Without my load of light:
And once again I flop
And tremble to a stop
In soul of awful night.
The sky is sometimes bright
But horror stalks my flight
And stable things I miss.
I hover out of sight
And wonder if I might
Break up in the abyss.
If you like this it can be found in an anthology of Winchcombe poets which has just come out, and also has several other of my poems. It reminds me of another thing that I think must account for a lot of my communication problems: I think in metaphor and symbol a great deal. For me the truest level of communication is the symbolic. I know this is unusual. Someone once told me I was a True Poet as I experience all of my life as poetry. I suspect that it's just because my grandparents were cousins and something unusual must have doubled up. (Haha, just inbred then?!) So... this is me being brief :D. I wonder if any of this makes any sense to anyone? Am I communicating?...
Saturday 9 June 2012
Love, grief, poetry
Hi everyone,
This post is about the difficult times in a writer's life. Everyone says, 'Oh, what a lovely job! Aren't you lucky?' but it takes so much grit and sheer determination that I don't think many people would keep it up - unless they'd been born into a wealthy family, with everyone in it in amazingly good health. That has not been my case. Many of you will know I was disabled for over a decade, with a simple thyroid problem, which took eight years to diagnose, and several more years for the dose of thyroxine to be regulated correctly. I was also a single parent, on benefits because of my illness, and had suffered minor brain injury which affected me in all sorts of strange little ways - primarily visually. I still regularly walk past people I know and don't recognise them - although I like to think I'm much better than I was.
So, this is me. A bit of a disaster, but also, a writer who has had a powerful sense of vocation from the age of three. (Yes, I had a light-bulb moment when I sat up in bed with excitement, knowing that THAT's what I'll do when I'm grown up!) Yes, sometimes it is heaven. You can disappear into worlds of your imagination. I regularly make myself laugh, and sometimes make myself cry. Well... just like in life really. Speaking of which...
Life this year has been a pig. I love life. I'm like Zorba the Greek, I sing and dance whatever life throws at me... or try to... but this year really has been one hell of a stinking pig. My sister was diagnosed with bowel cancer at Easter and is treating herself with vegetable juice and reflexology. (No, please don't comment...) I spent a month in a very dark place, and developed an extraordinary compulsion to go and sit near somebody who I guess I'd fallen in love with. It was the only way I could keep going, and I sat and wrote poetry because my mind just could not revert to the novel I was supposed to be writing ('Investigation: Haunted House', the children's novel to go with the play). The poetry wasn't particularly good but I experimented a lot and it must have helped my development as a poet. (I have published poetry fairly regularly over the years but I am really happy with only a handful of poems.) I also now have a lot of raw material... raw being the appropriate word for what was pouring out of me. It took huge self discipline to do anything at all. The absence of a workplace, which can be a perk of the job, became almost unbearable. I needed a place to go where I would see people I knew, who might feel at least a moderate affection for me.
I surfaced. I always bob back like a cork.This is the good thing about being a writer. You keep plodding on and suddenly you find that you have done something worthwhile, and created beauty and fun, as a result of pain. For that I would never never change my job, but, if I didn't have a sense of vocation I know I couldn't do it. It is not an easy option for anyone.
Love to all,
Pippa xx
This post is about the difficult times in a writer's life. Everyone says, 'Oh, what a lovely job! Aren't you lucky?' but it takes so much grit and sheer determination that I don't think many people would keep it up - unless they'd been born into a wealthy family, with everyone in it in amazingly good health. That has not been my case. Many of you will know I was disabled for over a decade, with a simple thyroid problem, which took eight years to diagnose, and several more years for the dose of thyroxine to be regulated correctly. I was also a single parent, on benefits because of my illness, and had suffered minor brain injury which affected me in all sorts of strange little ways - primarily visually. I still regularly walk past people I know and don't recognise them - although I like to think I'm much better than I was.
So, this is me. A bit of a disaster, but also, a writer who has had a powerful sense of vocation from the age of three. (Yes, I had a light-bulb moment when I sat up in bed with excitement, knowing that THAT's what I'll do when I'm grown up!) Yes, sometimes it is heaven. You can disappear into worlds of your imagination. I regularly make myself laugh, and sometimes make myself cry. Well... just like in life really. Speaking of which...
Life this year has been a pig. I love life. I'm like Zorba the Greek, I sing and dance whatever life throws at me... or try to... but this year really has been one hell of a stinking pig. My sister was diagnosed with bowel cancer at Easter and is treating herself with vegetable juice and reflexology. (No, please don't comment...) I spent a month in a very dark place, and developed an extraordinary compulsion to go and sit near somebody who I guess I'd fallen in love with. It was the only way I could keep going, and I sat and wrote poetry because my mind just could not revert to the novel I was supposed to be writing ('Investigation: Haunted House', the children's novel to go with the play). The poetry wasn't particularly good but I experimented a lot and it must have helped my development as a poet. (I have published poetry fairly regularly over the years but I am really happy with only a handful of poems.) I also now have a lot of raw material... raw being the appropriate word for what was pouring out of me. It took huge self discipline to do anything at all. The absence of a workplace, which can be a perk of the job, became almost unbearable. I needed a place to go where I would see people I knew, who might feel at least a moderate affection for me.
I surfaced. I always bob back like a cork.This is the good thing about being a writer. You keep plodding on and suddenly you find that you have done something worthwhile, and created beauty and fun, as a result of pain. For that I would never never change my job, but, if I didn't have a sense of vocation I know I couldn't do it. It is not an easy option for anyone.
Love to all,
Pippa xx
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