Finally heard back from Samantha Matthews about my short story 'Adam' that I submitted to Route 57, and they said they want to publish it! Yay!
Of course, that was "subject to minor revision", so I've got to give it a quick look at before they'll take it for sure, but I'm sure it won't be a big deal.
That's all for now.
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Redrafts
I finally got around to editing Sheriff Woods, and I've now submitted it to the competition. Here is a little section I particularly enjoyed writing, its from, sort of, the middle I guess. Early middle, let's say.
‘So then the Sherriff stood back up and looked around. His eyes fell on a young man by the name of White, young Jimmy White it was, and the Sherriff’s spurs clicked in time with the dull thud his boots made on the boards as he walked over. His percussive tread made the steely eyes he had fixed on Jimmy somehow more threatening, and you could tell Jimmy felt it in a chill up his back from the way he squirmed under that stare. Jimmy had been leaning up against the windowsill looking out with that hopefulness only known to the young, and the Sheriff span a chair round to put his boot up on, trapping Jimmy in his little corner of sun.
“Afternoon, Sheriff.”
‘Jimmy said, with a voice that shook as much as his hand when I saw him raise a Colt for the first time.’
“Good afternoon James.”
‘The Sheriff paused long enough for one of his rare smirks to curl the edges of his mouth, which just so happened to be the same exact amount of time that Jimmy could hold his breath in before he had to explosively exhale,
“Aw c’mon Sherriff, I’m dying here! What d’you want?! Whatever it is, I didn’t do it, I swear!”
“You know Jeremy James, James?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
“Were you drinking with him in here last night?”
“I sure was, we left around midnight, I remember because the church bell had gone off not long before. Of course, I live on ridge side and he lives down the valley so we went our separate ways at the door.”
“You sure you went your separate ways at the door?”
“Well yeah, I told him I’d meet him here today at three o’clock and said goodnight. Looks like he’s late.”
“Something tells me he’s a little more than late, Son. Jeremy James is dead.”
‘Jimmy White’s composure changed at the news, starting in his eyes and ears where the news first hit, then trickling through his body like the water up the top of the mountain where the river’s just a baby. Eventually his whole body was like a wet sack of malt and his eyes, normally as sharp as .45 slugs just pressed into the chamber, thinking excitedly of the moment they’ll be fired, were more like the empty shells that fall in the dust to be trodden on and turn to rust. He slumped against the window and slid down, spilling his drink as his body spilled limply onto the window sill.
I hope you liked it. I believe I should hear by the end of may whether I made it into the short list (of 3) which will go onto the website for further judgement. Fingers crossed till then.
Here's another (minor) redraft of a poem I posted not long ago that I revised after some constructive comments from one Christopher Littlefair (many thanks Chris). I read it at the recent reading with Joe Kriss and Kayo (I don't know how to spell his surname), and it went down very well.
Sunrise
When you look up from your drink
With hungover, listless eyes,
I see the sunrise on an autumn day,
crisp and hung with dew, which slowly
splashes the drowsy trees
shaking the tiredness from their leaves.
In my mouth the words taste like medicine,
as I try to explain, inarticulate and fumbling,
that I have to go away. I drain my cup,
Stand and look at this beautiful breaking day.
Oh, fuck it all. Perhaps I’ll stay.
That's all folks.
‘So then the Sherriff stood back up and looked around. His eyes fell on a young man by the name of White, young Jimmy White it was, and the Sherriff’s spurs clicked in time with the dull thud his boots made on the boards as he walked over. His percussive tread made the steely eyes he had fixed on Jimmy somehow more threatening, and you could tell Jimmy felt it in a chill up his back from the way he squirmed under that stare. Jimmy had been leaning up against the windowsill looking out with that hopefulness only known to the young, and the Sheriff span a chair round to put his boot up on, trapping Jimmy in his little corner of sun.
“Afternoon, Sheriff.”
‘Jimmy said, with a voice that shook as much as his hand when I saw him raise a Colt for the first time.’
“Good afternoon James.”
‘The Sheriff paused long enough for one of his rare smirks to curl the edges of his mouth, which just so happened to be the same exact amount of time that Jimmy could hold his breath in before he had to explosively exhale,
“Aw c’mon Sherriff, I’m dying here! What d’you want?! Whatever it is, I didn’t do it, I swear!”
“You know Jeremy James, James?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
“Were you drinking with him in here last night?”
“I sure was, we left around midnight, I remember because the church bell had gone off not long before. Of course, I live on ridge side and he lives down the valley so we went our separate ways at the door.”
“You sure you went your separate ways at the door?”
“Well yeah, I told him I’d meet him here today at three o’clock and said goodnight. Looks like he’s late.”
“Something tells me he’s a little more than late, Son. Jeremy James is dead.”
‘Jimmy White’s composure changed at the news, starting in his eyes and ears where the news first hit, then trickling through his body like the water up the top of the mountain where the river’s just a baby. Eventually his whole body was like a wet sack of malt and his eyes, normally as sharp as .45 slugs just pressed into the chamber, thinking excitedly of the moment they’ll be fired, were more like the empty shells that fall in the dust to be trodden on and turn to rust. He slumped against the window and slid down, spilling his drink as his body spilled limply onto the window sill.
I hope you liked it. I believe I should hear by the end of may whether I made it into the short list (of 3) which will go onto the website for further judgement. Fingers crossed till then.
Here's another (minor) redraft of a poem I posted not long ago that I revised after some constructive comments from one Christopher Littlefair (many thanks Chris). I read it at the recent reading with Joe Kriss and Kayo (I don't know how to spell his surname), and it went down very well.
Sunrise
When you look up from your drink
With hungover, listless eyes,
I see the sunrise on an autumn day,
crisp and hung with dew, which slowly
splashes the drowsy trees
shaking the tiredness from their leaves.
In my mouth the words taste like medicine,
as I try to explain, inarticulate and fumbling,
that I have to go away. I drain my cup,
Stand and look at this beautiful breaking day.
Oh, fuck it all. Perhaps I’ll stay.
That's all folks.
Friday, 14 May 2010
Reading went well.
The reading yesterday went very very well, my poems were well received and I got some encouraging feedback from the others reader and one or two members of the audience.
I also took a moment to say to Joe and Kayo how good it was to get to read with them, and Joe said he'd really liked my poems too, and that I should definitely submit some more poems to Now Then Magazine (of which he is the poetry submissions editor).
So, another excellent reading, despite my partially lost voice.
Definitely got to make myself go back and edit 'Sheriff Woods' because the hand in date is Sunday (shit). Also I need to make a decision about which poems to enter into the Poetry London competition that I mentioned before.
So, good things still happening and some more exciting things to come. Hurray!
I also took a moment to say to Joe and Kayo how good it was to get to read with them, and Joe said he'd really liked my poems too, and that I should definitely submit some more poems to Now Then Magazine (of which he is the poetry submissions editor).
So, another excellent reading, despite my partially lost voice.
Definitely got to make myself go back and edit 'Sheriff Woods' because the hand in date is Sunday (shit). Also I need to make a decision about which poems to enter into the Poetry London competition that I mentioned before.
So, good things still happening and some more exciting things to come. Hurray!
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
a couple of small things.
Working on a little poem that's an attempt to write something funny, but I'm going to play this one a little close to my chest until I've gotten it straightened out, seeing as me trying to be funny doesn't always go very well.
On another note, my seminar group for my Contemporary Literature module had an extended class today with two "Slam" poets, Joe Kriss and Kayo (I think) I-forget-his-surname. It was good fun, Slam Poetry is pretty cool, pretty much just Rap but without music. I ended up having a little go at writing a short section and the Joe and Kayo said they really liked it, in fact Kayo said something along the lines of "you could start a side career in hip hop, I think" which was encouraging.
Those two poets are the headliners for the poetry reading tomorrow night, so I feel lucky to get to read along side some more very talented people. Its also one of my closest friends' birthday tomorrow and I've spent a not insignificant part of this evening preparing her gift, which I think she's going to love (fingers crossed).
So, a few things happening, I'm doing my best to stay active and get my name known a little. What else can I do right now?
Over and out.
On another note, my seminar group for my Contemporary Literature module had an extended class today with two "Slam" poets, Joe Kriss and Kayo (I think) I-forget-his-surname. It was good fun, Slam Poetry is pretty cool, pretty much just Rap but without music. I ended up having a little go at writing a short section and the Joe and Kayo said they really liked it, in fact Kayo said something along the lines of "you could start a side career in hip hop, I think" which was encouraging.
Those two poets are the headliners for the poetry reading tomorrow night, so I feel lucky to get to read along side some more very talented people. Its also one of my closest friends' birthday tomorrow and I've spent a not insignificant part of this evening preparing her gift, which I think she's going to love (fingers crossed).
So, a few things happening, I'm doing my best to stay active and get my name known a little. What else can I do right now?
Over and out.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
New Poems
I've just had my latest set of poems back from friend and mentor Helen Mort, addorned with her comments, suggestions, flattery etc.
I continue to get a very good response from her which is really encouraging, and my Mum phoned to tell me she thought I was "actually a poet now" after reading some of my scribblings that were sent back after I used an incorrect size envelope: god damn postal service just don't get it man, you can't stop poetry! lol. Still, good old Mum :)
I'm now waiting to hear back from the Route 57 chaps about the short story I sent them, although as I said before I think it'll probably be included just to fill up the space, if nothing else. Hopefully they won't make me edit it too much, and if they do it will all be constructive etc etc blablabla.
Need to get down to redrafting 'Sherriff Woods', so far my brother Nick's comments have been the most critical / productive, so I'll sit down with (at least) them in mind one day and redraft it like a mother's trucker.
I also need to decide what poem I want to send off to the Poetry London poetry competition (first prize £1000, second £500, third £200 and four "commendations" of £75 - big news!) in time to get them in by the 31st of may (oh dear that's this month).
For now, here are two (quite short) poems from the ones I sent to Helen, having edited them. This isn't necessarily the way they'll stay, of course, and comments are welcome.
Carry on . . .
Love
First, hold it gently. Close your eyes, take a deep breath.
Next, a sip and swallow it for that first rush,
then a larger mouthful. Let it stay on your tongue,
roll it to the back and taste again.
Breathe through it, the air will loosen the composition
on your pallet and bring the flavours out.
Don’t speak or try to describe; just take it in.
Then listen to me say it again.
Sunrise
When you look up from your drink,
leading with your eyebrows then your lids,
I see the sunrise on an autumn day,
crisp and hung with dew, which slowly
splashes the drowsy trees
shaking the tiredness from their leaves.
In my mouth the words taste like medicine,
as I try to explain, inarticulate and fumbling,
that I have to go away. I drain my cup,
Stand and look at this beautiful breaking day.
Oh, fuck it all. Perhaps I’ll stay.
I hope you enjoyed them :)
p.s. sorry for swearing.
p.p.s. well, I'm not really sorry. In fact, I quite enjoyed it.
I continue to get a very good response from her which is really encouraging, and my Mum phoned to tell me she thought I was "actually a poet now" after reading some of my scribblings that were sent back after I used an incorrect size envelope: god damn postal service just don't get it man, you can't stop poetry! lol. Still, good old Mum :)
I'm now waiting to hear back from the Route 57 chaps about the short story I sent them, although as I said before I think it'll probably be included just to fill up the space, if nothing else. Hopefully they won't make me edit it too much, and if they do it will all be constructive etc etc blablabla.
Need to get down to redrafting 'Sherriff Woods', so far my brother Nick's comments have been the most critical / productive, so I'll sit down with (at least) them in mind one day and redraft it like a mother's trucker.
I also need to decide what poem I want to send off to the Poetry London poetry competition (first prize £1000, second £500, third £200 and four "commendations" of £75 - big news!) in time to get them in by the 31st of may (oh dear that's this month).
For now, here are two (quite short) poems from the ones I sent to Helen, having edited them. This isn't necessarily the way they'll stay, of course, and comments are welcome.
Carry on . . .
Love
First, hold it gently. Close your eyes, take a deep breath.
Next, a sip and swallow it for that first rush,
then a larger mouthful. Let it stay on your tongue,
roll it to the back and taste again.
Breathe through it, the air will loosen the composition
on your pallet and bring the flavours out.
Don’t speak or try to describe; just take it in.
Then listen to me say it again.
Sunrise
When you look up from your drink,
leading with your eyebrows then your lids,
I see the sunrise on an autumn day,
crisp and hung with dew, which slowly
splashes the drowsy trees
shaking the tiredness from their leaves.
In my mouth the words taste like medicine,
as I try to explain, inarticulate and fumbling,
that I have to go away. I drain my cup,
Stand and look at this beautiful breaking day.
Oh, fuck it all. Perhaps I’ll stay.
I hope you enjoyed them :)
p.s. sorry for swearing.
p.p.s. well, I'm not really sorry. In fact, I quite enjoyed it.
Sunday, 25 April 2010
new idea
I'm working towards writing something that ends with the line,
'. . . as though surfacing from a dream' although I don't know how I'm going to get there yet. I am, however, determined not to write about girls or kissing again, because, juvenile that I am, I know I write about that sort of thing too much. Still, its probably going to take a while to work around to something, but hopefully when I get there it will be fresh / interesting.
I also want to include the line, 'like the water at the top of the mountain, where the rivers just a child', and possibly follow it up with 'like the water dreams of the ocean when it gets too tired.'
Finally, had some reassuring and constructions responses to my short story, 'Sherriff Woods', so am trying to find a moment to go through and edit it into a second draft.
So, that's everything for now.
'. . . as though surfacing from a dream' although I don't know how I'm going to get there yet. I am, however, determined not to write about girls or kissing again, because, juvenile that I am, I know I write about that sort of thing too much. Still, its probably going to take a while to work around to something, but hopefully when I get there it will be fresh / interesting.
I also want to include the line, 'like the water at the top of the mountain, where the rivers just a child', and possibly follow it up with 'like the water dreams of the ocean when it gets too tired.'
Finally, had some reassuring and constructions responses to my short story, 'Sherriff Woods', so am trying to find a moment to go through and edit it into a second draft.
So, that's everything for now.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Short story submission
I have just now submitted an old short story of mine called 'Adam' to Dr Samantha Matthews from Sheffield University for their online creative writing, Route 57. When writing it I tried to engage with something a little deeper than just writing a story, but I feel silly saying what that was and would probably sound really pretentious, or just like a prick.
Let's hope she enjoys reading it, but I think, considering the numerous emails they've been sending out about extending the deadline for submission and PLEASE SUBMIT WORK OH GOD PLEASE SUBMIT WORK I think I stand a pretty good chance of it being included.
Anyway, I'll post again when I hear back from them, for now here's the opening paragraph, perhaps I'll post a bit more if they accept it . . .
It rained. Adam stood by the side of the grave as it rained and felt the moisture advancing through the layers of his suit. It infiltrated the tight cotton weave of his unpressed shirt to rest against the skin of his shoulders and back, and he allowed his eyes to peer through the rain streaked lenses of his thick-framed glasses around at the collected mourners. Black umbrellas shielded dresses of black and he thought of the seeming impropriety of the service’s solemnity, considering his father’s nature. He had not been a religious man, and had asked to be burned in a boat on the sea like a Viking: he had said theirs was a noble race, and he would like to walk in the halls of their dead. However, in the presence of his newly-devout-catholic sister, Adam observed a Christian burial, committing his father into the hands of her God. He felt the priest’s words as they vibrated the air around his head and in his ears, where a multitude of small bones vibrated in kind, like a thousand tiny hands tapping a message in Morse-code. This sent an impulse to his brain which told him a man was talking about his father.
Let's hope she enjoys reading it, but I think, considering the numerous emails they've been sending out about extending the deadline for submission and PLEASE SUBMIT WORK OH GOD PLEASE SUBMIT WORK I think I stand a pretty good chance of it being included.
Anyway, I'll post again when I hear back from them, for now here's the opening paragraph, perhaps I'll post a bit more if they accept it . . .
It rained. Adam stood by the side of the grave as it rained and felt the moisture advancing through the layers of his suit. It infiltrated the tight cotton weave of his unpressed shirt to rest against the skin of his shoulders and back, and he allowed his eyes to peer through the rain streaked lenses of his thick-framed glasses around at the collected mourners. Black umbrellas shielded dresses of black and he thought of the seeming impropriety of the service’s solemnity, considering his father’s nature. He had not been a religious man, and had asked to be burned in a boat on the sea like a Viking: he had said theirs was a noble race, and he would like to walk in the halls of their dead. However, in the presence of his newly-devout-catholic sister, Adam observed a Christian burial, committing his father into the hands of her God. He felt the priest’s words as they vibrated the air around his head and in his ears, where a multitude of small bones vibrated in kind, like a thousand tiny hands tapping a message in Morse-code. This sent an impulse to his brain which told him a man was talking about his father.
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