The New Writer Issue 114

THE NEW WRITER OVER 20 REBECCA SMITH
April/May/June 2013 | Issue 114
COMPETITION NEW POEMS KATIE FFORDE AND WRITING GROUPS
THE MAGAZINE FOR WRITERS
ANNOUNCED EVERY ISSUE RACHEL CONNOR
THENEW WRITER.COM
Poetry in focus Writers prompts The New Writer annual competition
April/May/June 2013 Issue 114 | 5.00
If you want to read about love and marriage, you have to buy two separate books. Alan King
Writing together, writing alone
Where heroes are like chocolate irresistible!

Established in 2009, Choc Lit is an independent publisher, specialising in quality womens ction with romantic content, where the writing clearly develops the heros point of view. Not surprisingly, they believe that the enjoyment of a good read is enhanced by the taste of chocolate! Winning Publisher of the Year in 2012 Choc Lit has also won several awards for individual books including Please Dont Stop the Music by Jane Lovering (2012 Romantic Novel of the Year Award), Highland Storms by Christina Courtenay (2012 Historical Novel of the Year Award) and Love & Freedom by Sue Moorcroft (2012 Best Romantic Read Award). We are delighted to partner with Choc Lit on this competition. Their secret? A Tasting Panel of independent readers who nd the best romantic ction. However, they themselves strongly recommend that you have your novel assessed before submitting it which is where The New Writer comes in. The New Writer will act as agent for 3 submissions to receive preferential access to their Tasting Panel. At this stage we are simply looking for your rst chapter and synopsis before you embark on the full novel. To enter go to thenewwriter.com / COMPETITIONS / CHOC LIT For full terms and conditions see thenewwriter.com All entries must be received no later than midnight on 31 July 2013.
The New Writer / Choc Lit competition
Taking off the training wheels
f rom t h e e di t or s
from the editors

Taking off the training wheels
o you remember that feeling when you were learning to ride a bike? Dont let go! you would shout to whoever it was helping you to launch yourself, while at the same time you really wanted them to do just that. Eventually they did let go and you were riding independently, and it felt great (well at least until you reached the end of the road and realized you didnt know how to turn the bike and so fell off). Thats a bit how it has felt with our first issue of The New Writer. In the background we have had Guy and Merric willing us on while we have been saying, Let go! Dont let go! Let go! We (Alison and Madelaine) first met when we started working for newbooks magazine five years ago. We quickly realized that we had in common not only a love of books and reading but also that in our spare time (what spare time?) we both wrote. We started by sharing our work with each other, rather sheepishly at first, and then joined a writing group which we have ended up running. We have challenged, even nagged, each other to get on with our writing. On one very scary occasion we even made each other read at a poetry slam! When the opportunity came for The New Writer to join the newbooks stable we were both champing at the bit to take it on, though neither of us said anything and eventually it was Merric who put forward the suggestion that we become joint editors. So here it is, our brand new relaunch issue. When we agreed to become Editors, little did we know the challenge ahead. It has been a steep learning curve, to say the least, but what a journey weve had. We know we havent managed to get it all right first time, and no doubt over the coming issues you will see various tweaks and changes. As much as anything it is your magazine and we aim to provide the content that you want to read. A survey of existing subscribers revealed that more than half of you belong to writing groups, often more than one, so we were keen to include more content for writing groups. Do go and look at Writing Together, Writing Alone and share it with your writing group. Wed love to hear of exercises that have produced some good work for your group, so do get in touch. Readers asked for insights into the publishing world and in this issue we have profiles of an editor, an agent and an article about publisher Head of Zeus. We plan to have similar articles in future issues so do let us know which areas of publishing youd like to see into. Competitions: love them or hate them, they can be a good impetus to get writing and to put your writing out there. We plan not only to continue the popular Annual New Writer Competition but also to introduce a variety of other competitions. For starters, in this issue youll find a Cover Photography challenge and a competition we have arranged with romantic fiction publisher Choc Lit. Alongside all this new content we are keen to maintain the presence of work by our subscribers, both fiction and poetry. Please do submit your best work for our consideration. All opportunities to get out your laptop are highlighted throughout the magazine with this symbol: So, what do you think? Wed like to hear from you, our readers. Feedback is always welcome, but do be gentle, this is our first issue! Turn those laptops on, get those computers logged in, get writing and email us at editorial@thenewwriter.com. We look forward to hearing from you. Alison alison.glinn@thenewwriter.com Madelaine madelaine.smith@thenewwriter.com
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c on t e n t
W RI T E R
S BLO
COMPETITION
CK
NEW POEMS KATIE FFORDE AND WRITING GROUPS

THENEW WRITER.COM
Regulars
W H AT S N E W . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 A round up of writing news and information W R I T E R S P ROM P T Maggie Phillips of Ed Victor Agency W R I T I N G S PAC E M E E T T H E AG E N T . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 2
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April/May/June 2013 | Issue 114 If you want to read about love and marriage, you have to buy two separate books. Alan King
d the House Writing Map
ting Things Writing Map
Writing Life Writing Map
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nd inspiring guide s of writing fiction ap is an A3 poster e, and contains 12 cises to make sure er you are and in
Your chance to respond to a visual prompt I N T R AY

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Rebecca Smith shares her half-constructed summerhouse W R I T E R S B O OK S H E L F

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Suzanne Ruthven Trials and tribulations of a commissioning editor Publisher Guy Pringle Editors Alison Glinn Madelaine Smith Guest Poetry Editor Abegail Morley Design Park Corner Design Ltd Editorial Consultant Merric Davidson The New Writer 4 Froxeld Close Winchester SO22 6JW Telephone 01962 620320 P OE T R Y I N F O C U S F ROM T H E HO U S E
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A round up of writing book reviews W R I T E R S G RO U P T H E R A P Y

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Rachel Connor eavesdrops on the writers ball
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Simon Whaley Is Elitism Fair?
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M E E T T H E E DI T OR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 8 Krystyna Green of Constable Robinson
Subscribers response and a new challenge M E E T T H E P U B L I S H E R . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 Head of Zeus
R E A DE R S C H A L L E N G E
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Abegail Morley looks at Cut Up Poetry
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S U B S C R I P T ION S A N D S P E C I A L OF F E R S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 F I V E B O OK S
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WRITING TOGETHER, W R I T I N G A L ON E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 0 An example of a writing exercise and your chance to try

m e e t t h e e di t or
Katie Fforde tells us about the books that shaped her as a writer
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w r i t i ng s pa c e s
Rebecca Smith
w r i t i ng spa c e s
Rebecca Smith
Krystyna Green
W R I T I N G S PA C E S
Krystyna Green
Krystyna Green Editorial Director for CR Crime talks to us about her career and how her role at Constable & Robinson has morphed and expanded over the years.
MEET THE EDITOR
BY REBECC A SMITH
A half-constructed summerhouse A
writer is meant to have a beautiful retreat. Dylan Thomas had a boathouse, Roald Dahl, an elaborate shed, and Vita Sackville-West had an Elizabethan tower at Sissinghurst Castle. Somewhere along the way I forgot to acquire a cabin or an eyrie of my own. I have completed four and three-quarter novels and a nonfiction book but still dont have a proper desk. Although mine isnt a huge oeuvre, people do sometimes ask me how I manage. I have an almost full-time job and three children, but have never believed that the pram in the hall is the enemy of creativity. My fi rst babys arrival spurred me on to fi nish the novel that had been flopping around in my notebooks for years. When your time is rationed, you learn the discipline that a writer needs. A writer has to create space for herself - the space to think and read and to make false starts. Ive learnt how to do that, to construct my writing space wherever I am. Im good at writing bits of things and at picking up where I left off.
ve been editorial director of the Constable & Robinson crime list for fteen years now but in fact its been going for as long as I have both of us started out in 1964! So we both have a big birthday coming up and to celebrate fty years of Constable Crime were rebranding the crime list in 2013, one year early, but we couldnt wait to give it its own dedicated imprint. Since Ive been doing the job for so long, Ive come to realise that the qualities of a good commissioning editor are probably also those that a good midwife possesses patience (masses of that) prior to the books delivery, calmness under pressure, encouragement when your author feels like giving up and, above all, enthusiasm and joy when the book is nally published. It takes years to hone these skills especially the patience. But you have to be intuitive too and truly believe in your author and their work when they come to you; half-heartedness in this business is a fast track to failure. I started out in publishing twenty-ve years ago, working for a literary agent before deciding I wanted to spend time on the other side of the publishing fence. I worked for Times Books at the time of their merger with Collins, followed by Macdonald Futura. After that I freelanced for a while, which is possibly the closest I have come to understanding what it is to be a full-time writer. It can be incredibly isolating meetings at least twice a week are a necessity to keep you in the loop and to keep you sane, as the alternatives wandering around in your dressing
gown until 4pm and eating spag bol for breakfast just because its there and you can is not to be recommended in the long term! I ended up at C&R, or rather at Robinson Publishing, in 1997 and have been here ever since. During that time the list has morphed and expanded beyond recognition. When I took over the running of the crime list we were publishing twentytwo hardbacks a year, primarily for the libraries. There were very few trade sales and certainly no supermarket or non-traditional sales deals. Indeed, there was no paperback publishing arm and paperback rights to Constables most notable crime p oe t r y i n f o c u s authors Peter Robinson and R D Wingeld were A collage of words sold out of house. Todays crime list is a very different beast; we publish about sixty-ve titles a year in a variety of formats. We do outstandingly well with series crime and have found our own niche in the marketplace with cosy crime, spearheaded by our star author M. C. Beaton, who writes the Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series. In the past few years the sales structure has expanded to cover a broad range of outlets and e-readers have had a huge impact on the list. Over the past couple of years Ive seen particular authors become outstanding e-sellers, notably James Craig and Alison Bruce, homegrown talent
I always carry writing materials with me; I have learnt that this is necessary. I can remember fitting a whole scene onto a supermarket receipt when suddenly I had a few precious minutes but no other paper. It is probably because I am spectacularly lazy that I dont much like writing at a desk. I would far rather write sitting on a sofa, or in a caf, or on a train or lounging on a bed. The liminal place between sleeping and being fully awake is often where composition begins. I tell my students this. The university timetablers often give my creative writing seminars 9 oclock starts. The students arent that pleased, but I think it can be useful. My students wont be aware (or probably interested) that their tutor has been up since six. Their tutor should have been writing at that early hour, but has probably just been answering emails, vacuuming, seeing her children off to school and college, or marking assignments. Getting up and writing straight away is the secret of getting things done. I love my university work, but marking over eight hundred thousand words of creative writing each year does take its toll. My own writing gets pushed out during term-time and I sometimes feel as though my characters are lost in the woods or trapped wherever I have left them, poor things, sitting about clutching cold cups of tea. Its impossible to write a complete novel in a university vacation, so I have to find ways of writing all year round. My editor at Ivy Press for Jane Austens Guide to Modern Lifes Dilemmas was a hard taskmistress. The moment Id sent her something it would come flying back with requests that I cut thirty seven words, add further footnotes or solve the problem of an orphanB. I wrote the last parts of it sitting on the floor in my sons room, working while he slept. He had what we now think was whooping cough, and was off school for weeks. I had to write when I wasnt looking after him, or teaching or marking. My partner took time off work and my mum helped too. Whooping cough is so violent that sufferers often throw up. This isnt how it should be in the Sissinghurst writing tower of my imagining. I sent off the final chunk of copy for my Jane book exactly a year after Id first been to visit the Ivy Press offices in Lewes. I am a non-driver and had travelled by train along the coast from Southampton, changing at Brighton. Days out like this are a treat. My life is very samey (home, family, work, school concerts and meetings, and not as many cultural events as Id like) but this suits me. I half dread our summer holidays and almost punched the air when I read that Anne Tyler dreaded hers too. What writers often need is stability, for nothing to be happening. I have to fit writing around other things, but if the other things are Just Normal Things, it is so much easier. Perhaps the reason that I dont really have a functioning desk is because the whole house is a giant desk to me. I like writing on the sofa when theres nobody in, or in our so-called dining room where the growing piles of books mean that the walls are moving inwards like those garbage-crushing walls in
Star Wars. When its not too cold I can work in our attic bedroom. We live on a hill and I like to think that I can see as far as Chawton, but Im probably deceiving myself. I have a small office at the university. It was constructed by boxing off part of a corridor. One wall is a huge window that looks out over the tennis courts, I even have a little terrace; however Im usually so busy seeing students that I cant spend time writing there. An Ikea Alve corner workstation was meant to change my life, to make me more efficient and productive. Its a big pine cupboard with doors that open to reveal, in theory, a beautifully organized space with a pull-out surface for a laptop. There is enough room for a printer, convenient holes for cables, and lovely deep shelves for books and files. The books are triple-parked now, but somehow it has never made the transition from big pine cupboard to perfect desk. Its useful for storing work-related stuff and for hiding the clutter of family life, but who wants to stare into a cupboard when they are writing? I need a window. Last year we bought a summerhouse. The idea is that it will be that longed for retreat, that peaceful place to read and write. My sons are already talking about dartboards, punch bags and snooker tables, but I will stand firm. Only those things that are beautiful and useful will be allowed in the summerhouse, and that doesnt include sports equipment. For months the summerhouse remained as a flat-packed behemoth, taking up most of the garage. There just wasnt a free weekend when it wasnt raining, snowing or blowing a gale. The summerhouse is now half-built; it has been in this state for weeks. We are waiting for another weekend without a storm. It doesnt have a roof yet, and doors and windows are a distant dream. I know Im lucky to be somebody who has a garden where she will one day have an idyllic retreat, but in the meantime, its just business as usual. I will keep on writing, finding the spaces between everything else, while trying to maintain the Sissinghurst tower in my mind, the place that a writer must be able to reach if she is ever to get anything done.
H. G. Smith
B A lone word on a line at the end of a paragraph is called an orphan. Rebecca Smiths first three novels, The Bluebird Caf, Happy Birthday and All That, and A Bit of Earth are published by Bloomsbury. During 2009 and 2010 she was the writer-in-residence at Jane Austens House Museum in Chawton, Hampshire. Her first work of nonfiction, Jane Austens Guide to Modern Lifes Dilemmas, is published by Ivy Press in the UK and Tarcher Penguin in North America. She teaches creative writing at the University of Southampton.
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A collage of words
p oe t r y i n f o c u s
A A collage collage of of words words

By ABeGAiL MorLey
Poetry in focus
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All raw materials used in the production of this magazine are harvested from sustainable managed forests. Every effort has been made to trace ownership of copyright material, but in a few cases this has proved impossible. Should any question arise about the use of any material, do please let us know.
ound poetry is all about taking text from one source, perhaps an un-poetic one, such as a newspaper, instruction manual, or recipe, or a literary source such as a novel, and using them to create a poem. At one end of the spectrum the poet keeps all the words and the order, but adds their own line breaks, or they might add additional words and change the order. At the other end, the poet might harvest material which they quote within their own poems. Noted and quoted famous poets took text from other sources and put them into their poems: Ezra Pound used official documents in parts of The Cantos, and Eliot included material from Shakespearean theatre and Greek mythology in The Waste Land. Evelyn Waugh took the title for his 1934 novel, A Handful of Dust straight from The Waste Land : And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Chinua Achebe did the same, taking the title for his novel, Things Fall Apart from Yeatss The Second Coming. To create a whole collection based on found poetry is hugely challenging and time-consuming, but Pam Zinnemann-Hope masters the concept in her collection, On Cigarette Papers (Ward Wood Publishing, 2012). To find out how this book came about, I contacted Pam and her publisher Adele Ward. When my mother [Lottie] died in 1990, two years after my father [Kurt], I found an archive of letters, photos and objects that she had left me, says Zinnemann-Hope.Amongst them was a tiny pile of cigarette papers with writing in Russian, pencilled in her hand. The book begins with a foreword and dramatis personae. A chronology of events is included at the back of the book, as well as a list of her sources.
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And Im Clearing Up the House Now youre gone, mother, I wear your pink angora cardigan. I like its softness against my neck and wrists, your smell of cigarettes and Joy de Patou. I find it edgy in the house without you. Youve put everything in order for me, even tied the right key to each suitcase in the attic. You would! You know that Russian proverb? Its in Solzhenitsyn: No. Dont! Dont dig up the past. Dwell on the past and you lose an eye. It goes on: Forget the past and youll lose two eyes. Up until this point she had only known the bare bones of her familys history, but with help from three of her mothers friends, Erna, Tilde Goldschmidt/Goldsmith and Elizabeth May, she began putting the pieces back together. Erna was a German Communist who ended up in the UK. Zinnermann-Hopes parents met her in Russia and her story is told in one of the poems: Kharkov, August 1937 Ernas Tale How come my husband is arrested for crimes against the state? I need to find comfort. I want to see my friends. I set off for Kurt and Lotties in the heat. Their landlady doesnt speak, she points at their boarded up door.
So in 1996 Zinnermann-Hope began her research and writing. The search for a family history and search for self-identity is what drove her on to write: I have no brothers, sisters, cousins, no-one else to share the loss of home with. Gathering the material together was a huge task, especially as it was essential that Zinnemann-Hope found not only her voice, but those of her characters. It was a process of accumulation. Structuring it was the most difficult. It was workshopped at RADA with some fi ne actors, and this helped to pinpoint the gaps and pull the structure around. Workshopping with other poets also helped that process. Ultimately it had to fulfi l its dramatic imperative. At her launch at the Poetry Cafe, she read alongside actors, Anthony Shuster (War Horse) and Deborah Finlay (Cranford) bringing the book alive. Adele Ward said, Hearing Anthony Shuster reading the voices of the German men, alternating with the various women's voices read by Pam and Deborah Findlay, really made me realise how she had changed the voices for the characters and caught them so well. I get a number of submissions about the Holocaust, but there is something different about this story, says Adele Ward. A woman who is the daughter of a Nazi is determined to marry the Jewish man she falls in love with, even though that means being disowned by her family, risking being caught, as her father puts in a personal phone call to Gring to close the borders, and putting up with prison under Stalin's purges in Russia and then incarceration on the Isle of Man when they fi nally get to England. We would all want to fi nd love like that, so it adds something positive to such an emotional depiction of an important part of history.
Every Night In Her Sleep (My mothers dream) It draws me down. Deep under turquoise the water is lapping me. It keeps retreating. I can feel the yelling lodged in my chest. I open my mouth: no sound comes out. I try to push it out. I get no breath. And it keeps coming back. Day after day I grasp at straws of sunlight; Im beached on hot dry sand. Night after night I swim and stand in this stiing sea. I want to breathe. I can feel the silkiness of the water. I can open my mouth. I want to yell. My face is bursting, held in by the water, the power of the water. And it keeps returning. On Cigarette Papers hooks you immediately and is almost impossible to put down. I read it in one sitting and was blown away by it. I needed to reread it several times to take in the enormity of the project and the beauty of the individual poems. I agree with Zinnemann-Hope when she says, Its an extraordinary story, a cracking good story to tell and it takes in much of the turmoil of 20th century in Europe. It demanded to be told. When a poet uses found poetry, they should set their own constraints by analysing the material, selecting creatively and retelling something that needs to be told. It is up to the poet to decide whether or not to use only found material, with no words of their own or to include just a few snippets from another source. Writing found poetry can help a poet in a number of ways. It can act as a trigger a playful way of releasing our creativity; join words together that we werent expecting and give a different slant to our writing, often taking us somewhere new. By responding to various genres we develop our interpretive skills; use language that might be alien to us and make something ordinary, poetic. Our editorial skills gain importance we need to craft our piece; shape our lines; tighten the structure. It is not just collecting words; it is collecting the right words for our purpose. So select your scissors and get snipping.
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c on t e n t s
Features
Lynne Hackles PA I D T O B E F R I VOL O U S . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 Judy Bartkowiak W H AT W R I T E R S B L O C K ? . . . . . . . . . 2 0
Fiction & Poetry Competitions

M E T E ORO G IC A L LY YO U R S . . . . . . . . 10 A short story by Kath Whiting A short story by Lynne Woodward S OM E T H I N G N O T QU I T E R IG H T
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C hoc L it . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
S P R E A DI N G T H E WOR D W I T H A B L O G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 2 Emily Benet
P OE T R Y S E L E C T ION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 TA P E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 8 A short story by Richard Hulse T he N ew W riter P oetry & P rose P ri z es . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 P hotography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 9
Vanessa Gebbie
j u d y b a r t ko w i a k
F OL L OW I N G YO U R OB S E S S ION S . . 6 0
Something Not Quite Right by Lynne Woodward
s hor t s t or y
What writers block?

LP (Neuro Linguistic Programming) is the study of the structure of excellence, which basically means that if someone can do a thing, then you can do it. All you need to do is discover the structure of your own excellence. How do you do this as a writer? Focus on when youre writing at your best, when the words and ideas are flowing fast and furious, when you read a sentence youve written and think, Wow, Im good. Whats the structure? What is the difference that makes the difference? There will be elements of behaviour (programming) and self-talk (linguistic) but most importantly there will be your beliefs (neuro). Here are some tips that will help you discover your own structure of excellence.
What writers block?
SHORT STORY
Childrens author and self-help writer Judy Bartkowiak explains how the tools and techniques of Neuro Linguistic Programming can help you get your book published.
SOMETHING NOT QUITE RIGHT

B Y LY N N E W O O D W A R D
get writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
t h e n e w w r i t e r a n n ua l p ro s e a n d p oe t r y p r i z e s
If you cant imagine it, it aint gonna happen Exercise those visualising skills and focus your attention on creating an image of your book on sale in a bookshop, on Amazon, seeing people reading it on the train, whatever works for you. This is your book, your visualisation, your compelling outcome.
How much do you want it really? To work as a compelling vision it has to be something you want. There can be a down-side to putting yourself out there. Maybe no-one will buy your book? Maybe youll get some bad reviews? Perhaps you will have to write another one? Face the consequences of achieving your goal and decide to take the risk.
You already have all the resources. Lots of writers I know spend more time arranging their space, getting the household chores done, checking Facebook than they spend writing. The environment has to be just so. This is madness. Instead of trying to write 1,000 words a day, just get on with it and do it. Remember the occasions when you were determined to do something and did it? Somewhere in your life you have the skill to focus and be bloody-minded about doing what you want to do, so get that skill out from the cobwebs, dust it off and get on with writing.
20 twitter.com/thenewwritermag | facebook.com/TheNewWriterMagazine shor t s t or y
nna was on her knees in the snow at the foot of a tree, her head bent over, face hidden. Rita sat with her back pressing against the bark, legs stretched in front of her, staring ahead. The last light of the short day had fi nally slipped away. They had been silent for about ten minutes, and lost for about six hours. One way, and then another, they had paced along possible paths in the forest, drifting snow following them at each wrong turn. Anna had fi nally sunk into the snow and refused to walk any further. Rita looked at Annas crouched figure. I dont know how you think this is going to help, she said, shaking her head, just sitting here, doing nothing. Anna didnt move. Im tired. We dont know where to go. Its pointless. Im so cold, said Rita. Wouldnt it be better to keep walking? At least wed keep warm. She stood up. Come on, Anna. Anna still didnt move. Rita got hold of her arm and began to pull. Get the hell off me! What are you doing? We have to walk. Come on. Rita pulled again on Annas arm. Anna lashed out at her mother with her other arm, fighting her off. Rita let go and turned her back on her. Anna shifted her legs to one side and leaned back against the tree, her arms clutching her knees.
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The New Writer Annual Prose and Poetry Prizes

One of the major, international prizes for contemporary fiction and poetry, this is an opportunity to bring your work to a wider audience.
hat we are looking for is bold, incisive material in any genre just as long as it reflects writing today. First, second and third prizes will be presented as well as publication for the winning writers in The New Writer annual Collection. This is the 14th year of The New Writer Annual Prose and Poetry Prizes, although it is the 17th consecutive year of the Poetry Prizes previous winners include Alison Moore, Lezanne Clannachan, Sharon Black, Wes Lee, Alexandra Fox, Cathy Whitfield, Alesha Racine, David Grubb, Katy Darby and Graham Clifford, whose award winning entries appeared in our Collections. Prizes are awarded in the following categories: Fiction Short Stories: 500 to 3,000 words Micro Fiction: up to 500 words
How t o E n t E r t H E n E w w r i t E r A n n uA l P ro s E A n d P oE t r y P r i z E s We would prefer to receive all entries by email. Entries should be emailed to info@thenewwriter.com All entries should have the subject heading: Entry The New Writer Annual Prose and Poetry Prizes. Entries should be sent as an attachment either Microsoft Word (.doc) or plain text (.txt) formats. Payment should be made via the Entry page on www.thenewwriter.com. We will match up the entries and the payments when received. Fiction should be double-spaced, poetry should be single-spaced. Entrants may make as many submissions as they wish but authors name must not be included on the script. Your name, address, title of entry, word count and category should appear on a separate cover sheet with every entry. Preliminary judging will be carried out by The New Writer editorial board with guest judges making the final selection so there should be no identifying marks apart from the title on the entries. Entries are non-returnable. These are annual prizes for more information contact The New Writer tel 01962 620320 or email info@thenewwriter.com The closing date of The New Writer Annual Prose and Poetry Prizes is 30th November 2013. The results of The New Writer Annual Prose and Poetry Prizes are announced on www.thenewwriter.com towards mid-March and in the Summer edition of the magazine.
Tape by Richard Hulse
Short Stories: 1st prize 300, 2nd 200, 3rd 100 Micro Fiction: 1st prize 150, 2nd 100, 3rd 50 Fiction can be on any subject or theme, in any genre (not childrens). Previously published work or work which has previously won a competition is not eligible.
e m i ly be n e t
Spreading the word with a blog
Poetry Single Poems: up to 40 lines Collections: between 6 10 poems, up to 60 lines per poem Single: 1st prize 100, 2nd 75, 3rd 50 Collection: 1st prize 300, 2nd 200, 3rd 100 Single poem entries must be previously unpublished; previously published poems can be included as part of a Collection though the full collection should not have been published previously.
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SHORT STORY
spreading the word with a blog

B Y E M I LY B E N E T
We are launching a competition to nd cover images of future issues of The New Writer.
BY RicHaRd HulSe
how your paintings, Kelso had suggested. Some of them are fine. The end of term art exhibition. Myra faced it without hope. Failure was gathering itself in the near future; already she could see its moronic smile. Myra stood in the large hall the college had designated as exhibition space. Her own allocation was a corner of blank walls and a bare floor. Shed brought several canvases and propped them up against a nearby table, but for a second she contemplated leaving the space as it was. The theme is emptiness, she would say. Or impotence. The tutors might even admire her effrontery. Theyre pretty good, your paintings, Kelso had said. Put them up. Easy for him to advise. His own exercises in neo-Rackham pen and inks were beautiful creations; minutely detailed, works of love. It must have taken you hours, Myra had said when shed first seen them in the autumn. Hed smiled. Gazing about the hall, Myra saw not only Kelsos work, but the fruits of all the other students creativity: Jenny, not long out of sixth form, but gifted beyond her years; everyone knew her portraits of the
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Emily Benet
Emily Benet does for chandeliers what Bridget Jones did for publishing
Shop Girl Diaries

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hen I was 11 years old, I wrote in my diary, Ive started a new novel today which Im going to get published. I believed that to get a book published all I had to do was write one. It was a shock to discover this was not the case. I later learnt that the book had to be brilliant. Not only that but it had to land on an agents desk at the exact moment they were savouring a fresh cup of coffee, the sun was shining and they were feeling a profound love towards all humanity. Rejection was inevitable. If you were very lucky you would receive a personal letter, and only then to tell you that your book was rubbish but your font had potential. Patience is not my greatest virtue. By 24 I was fed up of waiting for someone to pluck my work out of the slush pile and bless it with their approval. All I wanted to do was write and be read. And so I began a blog about the only thing I really knew anything about, which was working in my Mum's eccentric chandelier shop. At fi rst my readership consisted of a few friends and relatives, but gradually my following grew. I took my weekly deadline very seriously and edited as ruthlessly as if it were going to be printed in a national newspaper.
poor and dispossessed would be a certain passport to University, here in Manchester or further afield. Then there was William, the retired bus conductor, and his smoky swirling pastels. It was enough to break ones heart. True, over the last year, shed gained competence in drawing, knew how to block out an image, draw a likeness. But this dogged perseverance served only to underline a fundamental truth; she was talentless. All she could hope for was to put up some of her best and the word felt heavy with irony, were there such divisions as best and worst when it came to mediocrity? some, then, of her less inept watercolours, and hope to scrape through the assessments. Myra grimaced. Shed done well to be accepted on the course. An impact greater than that was too much to hope for. Shed overheard Jenny discussing her work with another student, and from the girls pretty lips had fallen the dread words; Sunday afternoon painter. But it was all of a oneness. Her flat was less a living space, more a mausoleum for the Arts: clumsy sculptures; aborted novels; poems tucked away in drawers, with rhyme schemes that even Myra
The judges will be looking for originality as well as visually stunning images that reect the spirit and content of The New Writer. We would like you to be as inventive as possible. The winning images will be printed as covers of future issues of The New Writer or may be used to illustrate articles and stories within the magazine. FORMAT The New Writer format will remain as A4 vertical so we will be looking for portrait images. Text announcing the contents of the magazine will appear over the top of the image and the magazine title may be cut out from the image, so bear this in mind when composing your shot. The colours of the photograph may dene the colour palette of the issue. JUDGING PROCESS Entries will be judged by a panel on originality, technical prociency and visual impact. The winner will be revealed in Issue 115 when it is published in July. HOW TO ENTER To enter, please email a maximum of three high-res images (300 dpi at A4) as separate emails to info@thenewwriter.com Cover Photography Competition in the subject eld. All submissions must be your own work. Please include your name, contact details and a brief description of your submission. COST OF ENTRY Up to 2 photographs (3 for TNW subscribers) 5.00. Payment for entry can be made via the competitions page on www.thenewwriter.com
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The deadline is midnight on Saturday 1 June.

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t h e n e w w r i t e r a n n ua l p ro se a n d p oe t r y p r i z e s
One of the major, international prizes for contemporary fiction and poetry, this is an opportunity to bring your work to a wider audience.
The New Writer Annual Prose and Poetry Prizes
hat we are looking for is bold, incisive material in any genre just as long as it reflects writing today. First, second and third prizes will be presented as well as publication for the winning writers in The New Writer annual Collection. This is the 14th year of The New Writer Annual Prose and Poetry Prizes, although it is the 17th consecutive year of the Poetry Prizes previous winners include Alison Moore, Lezanne Clannachan, Sharon Black, Wes Lee, Alexandra Fox, Cathy Whitfield, Alesha Racine, David Grubb, Katy Darby and Graham Clifford, whose award winning entries appeared in our Collections. Prizes are awarded in the following categories: Fiction Short Stories: 500 to 3,000 words Micro Fiction: up to 500 words Short Stories: 1st prize 300, 2nd 200, 3rd 100 Micro Fiction: 1st prize 150, 2nd 100, 3rd 50 Fiction can be on any subject or theme, in any genre (not childrens). Previously published work or work which has previously won a competition is not eligible. Poetry Single Poems: up to 40 lines Collections: between 6 10 poems, up to 60 lines per poem Single: 1st prize 100, 2nd 75, 3rd 50 Collection: 1st prize 300, 2nd 200, 3rd 100 Single poem entries must be previously unpublished; previously published poems can be included as part of a Collection though the full collection should not have been published previously.
How t o E n t e r The Ne w W r i t e r A n n ua l P ro s e a n d P oe t r y P r i z e s We would prefer to receive all entries by email. Entries should be emailed to info@thenewwriter.com All entries should have the subject heading: Entry The New Writer Annual Prose and Poetry Prizes. Entries should be sent as an attachment either Microsoft Word (.doc) or plain text (.txt) formats. Payment should be made via the Entry page on www.thenewwriter.com. We will match up the entries and the payments when received. Fiction should be double-spaced, poetry should be single-spaced. Entrants may make as many submissions as they wish but authors name must not be included on the script. Your name, address, title of entry, word count and category should appear on a separate cover sheet with every entry. Preliminary judging will be carried out by The New Writer editorial board with guest judges making the final selection so there should be no identifying marks apart from the title on the entries. Entries are non-returnable. These are annual prizes for more information contact The New Writer tel 01962 620320 or email info@thenewwriter.com The closing date of The New Writer Annual Prose and Poetry Prizes is 30th November 2013. The results of The New Writer Annual Prose and Poetry Prizes are announced on www.thenewwriter.com towards mid-March and in the Summer edition of the magazine.
w h a t s n e w ?
W H AT S NEW?
Writing Hampshire Mapping the County through Poetry

A map of poems about what Hampshire means to the people who live, work, study, play or visit the county has been created and poets are invited to add their own poems to the map. Submission is online via the map. The poems are pinpointed to the locations that inspired them and it is possible for readers to comment on each poem. The map is open to all ages and you dont need to live in Hampshire to join in. The only requirement is that the poem is connected to a place in Hampshire that matters to you. The map can be seen at http://bit.ly/HantsPoetry
Our regular column of news snippets and insights into the world of writing
The 2013 Canterbury Festival Poet of the Year Competition has been launched
The Festival is on the lookout for todays best writers from all across UK and beyond, and is encouraging submissions of a poems or series of poems to the competition. The deadline for entry is 14 June. Poems can be on any subject and previous entrants have written poems inspired by a variety of topics, conjuring images of the wilds of Africa, Italian rain and the blustery shoreline of Britain evoking strong emotions and recalling experiences or creating new narratives with imaginative and compelling use of language. Once all poems are submitted, a panel of judges will choose a long list of entries, which will then be included in a published booklet available to entrants and the general public. The Competition Final will be held on National Poetry Day, Thursday 3 October 2013 where the shortlisted poems will be performed and the Poet of the Year title decided. The nal will combine the poetry readings with live musical entertainment, and is one of the community literature highlights of the year. More information can be seen at http://bit.ly/CantabPoet
Derek Adams
Ros Barber longlisted for the Womens Prize for Fiction

Poet Ros Barber, whose novel The Marlowe Papers has been longlisted for the Womens Prize for Fiction, will be appearing at the Cheltenham Poetry Festival on Saturday 27 April. Ros is renowned for the entertaining and powerful quality of her live readings, so this is sure to be among the highlights of the festival. www.cheltenhampoetryfest.co.uk
The Arvon Foundation brochure is now available to download from their website. Arvon offers life-changing creative experiences to anyone who writes from beginners to published writers. http://www.arvonfoundation.org/
Competition News
We have had so much to put into this relaunch issue that there isnt any space remaining for Competition News. There is however a regularly updated list on the website. Do have a look and while there have a browse around. www.thenewwriter.com You can also follow us on Facebook and Twitter for the most up to date information.
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Readers Challenge
With so much news recently about signicant archaeological nds the Readers Challenge this issue is to write a piece of ash ction on the theme of Digging up the Past. Submissions should be no more than 200 words. The best will be published in a future issue of The New Writer. See p58 for results from TNW112.
SARAH HOUGH STATIONERY

EACH SEE PAGE 64 TO ORDER
We love these wonderful Skinny Notebooks from Sarah Hough. At 7*14 cm they are the ideal size for carrying in your pocket or bag, and are just perfect to note down that snatch of conversation overheard on a bus, or that brilliant line of poetry that popped into your head when you were walking the dog. You can buy them for 2.00 each and they would make great little envelope llers to include in a card to your writer friends.
POETRY IN FOCUS Digging

I carefully trowel through your rippling archaeologies tumbling from oor to oor easing away the fragments, nding the summer levels strewn with corn and the bone studded winter surfaces. I even nd your footprint left in a hurry one muddy November afternoon. You live forwards season by season blind to me. I dig backwards layer by layer only half seeing. We pass each other in a few days of excavation on a hot summer. Hugh Greasley
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Afterwards
I went back to the spot where we spent an afternoon the river a gleam in the dark, sky a braille of stars. We watched a kahn lug coal to Koblenz or Kln, a line of shirts in surrender from bridge to stern.
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I lay with my head on your lap while you fed me some apricot an but only if I said sinaasappelsap. Things I sensed then would return again and again, like a guide light that booms out of the night then stops, leaving the drizzled tail of its reection deep in the mind long after the light has gone. Will Kemp
Not forgetting Sarahs notecards! Available from the shop at guisegifts.com

8 twitter.com/thenewwritermag | facebook.com/TheNewWriterMagazine
Pool with Two Figures Paintings by David Hockney

In Californian light poised over the rippling surface of the pool he stands balanced on a shadow which slides over warm poolside tiles and undulates through the accidental colours of ring. Eyes half shut in the glare, he watches the body below. A pale phrase in the song of acrylic light contained and blind below the surface in the trembling mesh of the sun that lashes the sides of the pool. Hugh Greasley
AND 6 MORE TO TEMPT YOU !
Les Evnements
We didn't throw paving stones in Montreal that summer of '68. We sat in dope-lled rooms while Chas droned his way through Cohen, drank rum and coke, raved to Bob Marley in La vieille barrique. We cooled our feet on dawn cobbles by Our Lady of the Harbour, drove with crates of beer to Memphrmagog where old men spoke exiled languages and wives recreated homelands in the kitchen. We made love on land surrendered by Abenaki chiefs, counted constellations spelling out eternity across the lake. Margaret Beston

Agapanthus Breeze (SKaga) Actual size Allium Fernandez (SKali) Arabian Night (SKara) Sweet Lavender (SKlav) Roses are Red (SKros) Going Dutch (SKtul)
2.00
Available from the shop at guisegifts.com

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shor t s t or y
Meteorologically Yours by Kath Whiting
SHORT STORY
METEOROLOGIC ALLY
B Y K AT H W H I T I N G
e has tried out every caf in town and decided on this one. It is not the prettiest but it has excellent coffee and large windows which let in enough sky. Today sunshine is streaming in, a relief after weeks of grey. He sits in his corner, opens his laptop and continues his thesis. Good morning, the waitress sings. Her hair is haloed in the light. Hello. Coffee and two boiled eggs? Please. He hadnt really noticed her before; shed just been in the background. She beams at him. Why not try something different. Scrambled? Poached? No thanks. He returns her smile and manages not to blush at his monotony. She leans forward, Ill make sure theyre cooked to perfection. Then she skips to the kitchen. He looks back at his screen. The attraction of particles... He rubs his forehead. The waitress is different today. He tries to remember how shed been before, civil, slightly sullen. Maybe she wants to increase her tip, maybe it is the sunshine, maybe she is irting with him. She comes back in and sings as she makes his coffee, warms his milk. So, youre writing the next bestseller? He gets a waft of washing lines as she puts his coffee down. No, nothing so exciting. Im writing about molecular fusion.
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YOURS
Oh, thats pretty exciting. I love Boughens work. Youve read Boughen? Got to exercise the mind. Wow. Not what youd expect from a waitress? She grins at him. No, I mean, I suppose not. As he stumbles over his snobbery, he spills the milk. Sorry. She fetches a cloth and wipes up his mess. An old woman in a pink coat comes in. The waitress hurries over. He steals glances and catches at snippets as she takes the womans order. They laugh raucously and discuss knitting and French cinema. He sees he is not special. When the waitress brings his eggs he wonders why he hadnt clocked her before. He has eyes, he is a man; has he really been that caught up in molecules? I hope you enjoy them. I always do; theyre excellent. Thank you. Ill tell the chef. The coffees great too. He wants to compliment her. Its all about roasting the beans. Its half art, half science. Thats probably where you dwell, isnt it? Err, Id certainly like to. She sparkles at him and he thinks maybe he is a bit special. The next day the air is thick with mist. He sits at his table, and rubs his chin; he has shaved. After a while the waitress comes over to him. Her hair falls over one eye.
Meteorologically Yours by Kath Whiting
s hor t s t or y
Hello, he says. Morning. No smile. As she waits for his order, her gaze drifts out the window. Coffee and eggs please. He decides to take a risk. Scrambled please. A raised eyebrow is the only reaction to his extraordinary request. He opens his laptop and types. Where is his coffee? He looks over at the counter. She moves dreamily, caressing the coffee machine rather than instructing it. Minutes later she sets his drink down. Thanks, he says. Hmm? Youre welcome. She turns to go. Err... he begins. She twists back to him. Yes? He had been about to change his order back to boiled, but her expression puts him off. Dont worry. He stares, perplexed after her. The door opens and it is the old woman; damp clinging to her pink coat. She sinks into a seat near his. Long moments pass before the waitress goes to her. She smiles distractedly at the woman, takes her order and swoops her hair back as she saunters to the kitchen. The old woman looks over at him. I know what youre thinking. He cranes towards his laptop, but the woman leans over and whispers, Is she the same person? He forgets to be shy. Thats exactly what I was thinking. The woman laughs. Thats what I used to think. Either twins or schizophrenia. But I finally worked it out. S.A.D; extreme seasonal adjustment disorder. Her moods match the weather. They look out at the swirling mist. Gosh. Its interesting to see how she interprets the elements. You should have seen her when it snowed; she was marvellous. Before yesterday, she was... Insipid? Dull? Yes, I hardly saw her. Well, its been cloudy for weeks. Thats incred He stops as the waitress reappears with his eggs. Which are boiled. She glides gracefully back to the kitchen. The old woman grins. You obviously enjoy complex problems. He looks at his laptop. Molecular connections arent everyones cup of tea. The woman laughs. I was talking about you falling in love with her. Oh no, I...no... He feels his face colouring. Must get on. He types and eats as quickly as he can. On Wednesday morning he comes into the caf and puts his umbrella in the stand. He had thought about going elsewhere, but this place does have the best coffee and despite himself he wants to see the waitress again. What will she be like today?
She appears as he is switching his laptop on. Her hair is slick and he is sure her eye makeup is darker. She hovers by his table. Hello, he offers. Your order? My usual please. Your drink. As she puts it down a drop splashes onto the table. Shes crying. Are you... okay? Ill get your eggs. Wheres the old woman? He doesnt know what to do with weeping waitresses. There is still no sign of her when the waitress returns. The rain is pouring now and when she puts his plate down her shoulders are shuddering. Can I do anything? She doesnt reply but goes to the counter and starts cleaning it, crying noisily. He eats his eggs warily. There is a slash of lightening and a loud rumble of thunder that jangles the cutlery. The waitresss response is to hurl a cup against the wall. He shuts his laptop protectively. She sees him, gives a scream and smashes another cup. Whats wrong? he asks, Is it your boyfriend? Your boss? She hurls a cup at him. He ducks and it shatters against the door. You never noticed me until two days ago. What? Always staring at that bloody laptop. Sorry? What about me? What about looking at me? She has streaks of mascara down her face, a plate dangerously aimed at him. A beautifully complex problem. He starts laughing as her plate connects with his head. Can you hear me? He opens his eyes to pink. Hes awake. It is the old woman. The waitress, he asks, is she okay? Yes, its just spitting now. The waitresss face appears above him. Im so sorry. Little tears splash onto him. Its okay. He scrambles up, feels his head. Ow. Youre probably concussed, the old woman says. Ill go and get some ice. After years of reading Kath The waitress helps him into discovered writing. She goes a chair. On the table next to to creativity classes and him is his laptop. The screen coordinates an unsecret writing has been smashed. He looks at society in the cellar of her local her and sighs. tavern. She is a story slammer She bites her lip. Could I and occasional contributor to take you out tonight, her local free paper which is to apologise? enlightened enough to publish I dont know. fiction. When Kaths not writing, Its going to be clear. drawing or Nia dancing, shes Out of the window he sees walking her dog and enjoying a rainbow. the colour green.
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ly n n e h a c k l e s
Paid to be frivolous!
PAID TO BE FRIVOLOUS!
B Y LY N N E H A C K L E S
eing a speaker can bring in some extra income for a writer. One thing I have never had difculty with is talking, especially when it comes to talking about myself and my passion for writing. Ive spoken to many other writers at their group meetings or at writers days, weekends, and weeks. A new one for me was giving a talk to non-writers. Id applied to become a speaker for the Womens Institute and, after a very long wait, my name had come up and the good ladies had asked me to audition for them. It wasnt exactly the X-Factor but it was still an audition. Id offered two talks and was requested to give a sample of each. Now, being a writer, I know all about opening lines and grabbing your audience. Id once practised the very same technique on a visit to the doctor. He always sat there, head down, pen poised over his prescription pad and most of his patients had more than a sneaking suspicion that he didnt know who he was talking to as he never looked up. He was into voice recognition and knew his patients were either male or female. On one visit I was determined to get his full attention so, on walking in and seeing him in his normal pose, I said, loudly, Id like a sex change. It worked! (Not the sex change Im happy as I am. I mean getting his attention.) I could certainly do the same with members of the WI. They were giving me ten minutes so that meant ve minutes per talk. A dramatic ve-minute intro was written for both The 2 That Changed My Life and My Experience On Deal Or No Deal. Like a real pro I rehearsed them several times, making sure the timing was right and my arms didnt wave about too much. I have been known to stun someone in the front row of an audience by waving my arm with such force that my bracelet ew through the air and hit them between the eyes. The night arrived and I was ready. Was I nervous? No. Id been to bigger auditions than this. Once upon a time Id sat in front of a camera and been asked to talk about yourself for a bit. The words many writers love to
hear. They gave me ve minutes, asked a few questions and then sent me out of the private room, audition over. As I walked along the queue of hopefuls, all waiting for a place in the line-up of Deal Or No Deal, I kept being asked, What did you have to do in there? and I, smiling sweetly, replied, Take all your clothes off. I passed that audition and the rest is history. If youre really interested you can see an account of my show at the Deal Or No Deal Fansite, www.dond.co.uk There were no cameras in the village hall. Seats had been set out and two members from each of the WIs in the area were there to represent their group. Some held sheets of paper. The really efcient ones had clipboards. Their task: to give scores out of ten for each speaker. There were nine and I was the last. We were served with tea and biscuits and asked to sit at the back of the hall. The meeting started on time with a few words from the Chairperson and then we were straight into the rst audition. My spirits sank with each one. No-one else had prepared their rst ve minutes. They all gave samples of what they would talk about and not the actual words they were going to use. I am an expert on local history and have talks covering the social, economic and industrial history of This will involve slides I have sixteen different talks on the plight of Indias citizens. My talk will give you all the facts and information you need to know about the demise of the Barn Owl in the UK. They were all very interesting and Serious. And there was I waiting to do Frivolous. My hands shook. I was out of my depth. Auditionee Number Eight was covering Garden Design. What are you giving them? she said, so I told her how selling a readers letter had gone to my head and ever since receiving 2 for it Id gone on to forge a career in writing by conning people. She laughed. My name was nally called. I wobbled up the aisle to the tiny gap that had been designated enough space
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Paid to be frivolous!
ly n n e h a c k l e s
for a speaker. Thered be no strutting up and down and arm waving. I smiled at all the ladies, who had now been sitting on hard wooden chairs for over two hours, and made a snap decision. Id scrap my carefully prepared grab em and keep their attention words and, instead, tell them what Id said to Number Eight. Hello. Tonight I am Lynne Hackles. This morning I was a man. Yesterday I was Liz Wilden. Im a writer and use several different names. My talk, The 2 That Changed My Life, is about how I, who had been asked to leave school at the age of fteen so that the rest of the class could concentrate, ended up making a living as a writer. I told them how Id sold a readers letter for 2. We were watching seagulls by the River Severn in Worcester. Theyre a long way from the coast, I remarked to my friend. Oh, its not far if they come straight up the motorway, came her reply. I told them about the accompanying picture of two gulls in an open-top sports car and did a bit of arm waving as I demonstrated steering it. Then I confessed about going directly to the local newspaper and, on the strength of 36 published words, informed the editor I was a freelance writer, and asked for work. Since then, I told them, Ive sold articles, stories and books and live in fear that one day a hand will clamp on my shoulder and a voice say, Gotcha! You fraud. It made them laugh too and that sound made me want to keep them laughing, which I managed, for my allotted ten minutes, in which time I managed to incorporate a bit more arm waving and hand-apping. The Chairperson, who was in charge of the timer, slapped her hand on her clipboard to indicate that my time was up. I apologised to her for being frivolous and walked between the rows of now very dgety ladies. Id overdone it. Gone OTT as I was often wont to do. But no. Several hands were waving at me. Have you got a business card please? I handed out my stock of cards, all thirty of them. After her thank-you all for coming bit, the Chairperson informed the hopeful speakers that, in due course, they would be told whether they were successful or not. Three months on and Ive not heard an ofcial word. However, a dozen or more groups have already booked me. I can only assume that, because they havent waited for ofcial permission, they are WI rebels. I think were going to have fun and I promise Ill try not to knock any of them out with my bracelet.
MOLESKINE NOTEBOOKS
Writers and artists have used the Moleskine notebook over the past two centuries. Its spare design with rounded corners and an elastic page holder has become recognized as the notebook to possess by writers. We stock four of our favourites from the ever-growing range. So why not treat yourself and get writing?
Large Ruled Notebook Bound with the classic, stiff moleskine cover and placeholder ribbon, the rounded corners and elastic enclosure keep it compact whatever the journey. The 240 lined acid-free pages are thread bound, and the notebook includes an expandable inner note holder. 240 pages, 210 * 130 mm, 340 gms Price:13.50 Pocket Ruled Notebook Smaller brother or sister to the Large, the presentation is the same but with only 192 smaller pages its lighter and easier to slip in a pocket. 192 pages, 140 * 90 mm, 141 gms Price:9.99 Ruled Cahier Large The exible cardboard covers make this pack of 3 journals soft, light and suitable for every pocket. 80 acid-free paper pages, thread stitching visible on the spine. The back cover has a spacious pocket for notes or clippings, and the last 16 pages of each journal are detachable. Pack of 3, 80 pages, 210 * 130 mm, 313 gms Price:8.99 Ruled Cahier As with the Pocket above, this Cahier pack of 3 is the smaller sister identical except with only 64 acid-free pages of a smaller size. Pack of 3, 64 pages, 140 * 90 mm, 113 gms Price:5.99
Lynne Hackles describes herself as a buttery writer itting from short stories for womens magazines, to non-ction, novels, childrens books. Apart from poetry and pornography she has tried everything and used several different names along the way. www.lynnehackles.com
Also available from the shop at guisegifts.com
SEE PAGE 64 TO ORDER
5.99
FROM
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w r i t e r s p rom p t
Writers Prompt
A picture paints a thousand words and we certainly find that photographs and other illustrative materials can inspire us to write. With this in mind we will be including in each future issue at least one visual prompt to inspire our readers. Our challenge to you is to produce a piece of response prose or poetry starting with this wonderfully evocative image taken in the New Forest from young photographer James Polley. Send your responses to info@thenewwriter.com and we will print a selection of the best.
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James Polley Photography www.facebook.com/jamepolleyphotography
Suzanne Ruthven
i n t r ay
I N TRAY
Trials and tribulations of a commissioning editor

BY suzanne ruthven
f there is one thing that would be sent to my own personal Room 101 it would be those writers who ignore, or refuse to read submission guidelines. Every magazine and publishing house has its own individual likes and dislikes, which can usually be found in the writers handbooks, in the magazine or on the website. But I never cease to be amazed by the number of would-be authors who submit their typescript without ever looking at the targeted publishers guidelines or backlist. Admittedly, the editorial requirements for a writers magazine are limitless. Even the brief for my 10 years as commissioning editor for ignotus press was open to suggestion as the mind, body and spirit genre covers almost any and every interpretation. With Compass Books, however, the brief is very precise: it is a writers resource imprint and it only publishes how-to books for writers. So why have I received a proposal for ChristoJudaism in the Lebanon? The reason is probably because to make our Facebook page more interesting, we also include opportunities for writers from our other stablemates at John Hunt Publishing. Instead of reading the actual interview with the individual publishers, the would-be author sees the words: opportunities for writers in the spirituality genre and assumes that Compass Books will be delighted to receive this totally unsuitable offering! The whole point of publisher interviews and submission guidelines is to establish what they want to receive and what they dont and to prevent everyone wasting time in sending and receiving material that is totally unsuitable for that particular outlet. Writers guidelines are there for a purpose. They give the writer an overall idea of what a commissioning editor is willing to consider for publication in their magazine or for their book list.
Although they are usually quite comprehensive, a brief glance is no substitute for paying a visit to newsagents or bookshops to get an even better idea of the content, style and taboos for that particular market. The commissioning editor can always tell when the current editions of writers handbooks have hit the shelves, because there is a marked increase in the number of totally unsuitable proposals and/or typescripts arriving in the post or by email. Writers guidelines often state what commissioning editors dont want to receive or what they are not prepared to consider, including whether they will accept submissions by email. Receiving material that blatantly flouts the guidelines is a source of irritation just as much as receiving material from writers who have never even bothered to read a couple of issues of a magazine, or studied the backlist of titles to find the right imprint. Believe me, it is obvious. Guidelines help writers to ascertain just how a commissioning editor wants to receive submissions and whether their initial idea can be tailored to suit the house style of that publisher or magazine. Under no circumstances will a commissioning editor consider books or articles that do not fit into their specified category, and all commissioning editors, regardless of their specific genre, are sent typescripts for childrens books, poetry and other unsuitable projects largely because would-be authors havent bothered to find out the basic requirements: items of this type are immediately rejected. Over the 16 years or so, TNW contributors got used to my quirks and foibles; they knew what I liked and what meant instant rejection. With the recent change of editor(s), TNW readers may have to get used to a different set of guidelines, as no doubt Madelaine Smith and Alison Glinn will shy away from the macabre, the morbid and other black-hued themes, and stamp their own personalities on the magazine.
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a r von
Eavesdropping on the writers ball
sk any writer what they need most, and theyll answer: time and space to write. For over forty years, Arvon has provided writers with both, through its residential courses held in historic houses in rural parts of the UK. Anyone who has been to Arvon will describe how that time and space has a profound effect on your creativity. Its an intense five days, something to do with the experience of being thrown together with up to fifteen strangers, writing, eating and living collectively. Away from the demands of daily life, you spend all day with words; and thinking and talking about words. Admittedly, Im one of Arvons biggest fans. My own writing journey began in 2003 with a magical, transformative week on a Starting to Write course at Lumb Bank, Arvons Yorkshire centre. Now, ten years later, I work there as part of the team which oversees the running of the place. As an employee, your relationship with time and space in the house couldnt be more different from that of the writers. The minute you get to work you hit the ground running: responding to queries, making lunch, going shopping, welcoming guest speakers, facilitating the evening sessions and making sure everyone has what they need from one end of the day to the next. Hosting an Arvon course, you experience the most extraordinary time warp. One minute, its Monday afternoon and youre running around preparing the house for arrivals. The next, its Saturday and youre waving them off down the drive. As a writer, its a huge challenge to carve out time in the week to put words on the page. And in a job which is all about responding to peoples demands (a spare light bulb, an extra blanket, a room key), theres little head space for creative thinking. Arvon has been running courses since 1968. In the early days, the centres were run by live-in Centre Directors, who acted as caretaker-guardians. There were fewer courses back then and the job was essentially a residency: they would be fed, housed
Eavesdropping on the writers ball:
Arvon, writing and the Cinderella effect
16
Eavesdropping on the writers ball
a r von
and given time to write in exchange for maintaining the houses and hosting the courses. Since then, Arvons work with young people and disadvantaged groups has grown exponentially; these days, the houses are full virtually all year round. At my interview I remember being warned about the levels of energy required for the job its like hosting a week-long dinner party, they said. And they were right. The work of centre staff is varied, demanding and rewarding. Its easy to get sucked in to the vortex of the week, witnessing the participants creative highs and lows. In the effort to support them, its easy, too, to get depleted, to use up energy needed for writing. If I want to do any writing on a hosting week, I have to set my alarm early to squeeze out a few hundred words before the day begins. After a week of early mornings, combined with eight-hour-plus shifts when youre on your feet most of the day, theres little creative juice left over. Then theres the Cinderella effect. Almost all writers who come to Lumb assume that a perk of the job is being able to sit in on workshops. Far from it. You glimpse them through the glazed door as you scuttle between kitchen and store cupboard, preparing lunch. If youre lucky, you might catch a scrap of something tantalising. Its frustrating, hearing words of wisdom (that could make all the difference to your own writing practice) being doled out to others while youre stirring the soup. Yet, for all that, Im still there. So, as a writer, what does Arvon give me? It has taught me the discipline of maximising time. Like many others who juggle writing with other work, Ive learned to make the most of snatched moments I fi nd myself scribbling notes on my work-in-progress during lunch prep when Im up against the clock; or mentally sketching out a plot point as Im driving to the tip. On a basic level, it gets me away from my desk where Im alone for long stretches of time, inhabiting the world of stories. Ive come to depend on my Arvon work as the antithesis of that: sometimes mundane, often practical, it also involves direct communication with people and careful reading of social dynamics. It balances me, and reminds me that there is more to life than my fictional characters. Then there are the people, the countless conversations about writing and the creative process. Im endlessly fascinated by the writing journeys of others. Over the years Ive learned so much from guests at Lumb whether theyre there to teach or to learn. Im energised by those discussions about the struggles and joys of the practice; and, in turn, that energy feeds into my own work, giving me a sense of validity.
Facilitating the evening sessions, during which tutors and guests read from their work, is also a privilege. In the three years Ive been at Lumb Ive listened to writers from hugely different backgrounds, working in different genres, with a breadth of preoccupations. On a practical level its been a superb training ground for my own performance at readings and literary events. When I once congratulated a tutor on her fantastic delivery, she generously offered to coach me. And so I found myself in the garden, projecting my words to the valley while she gave me feedback. Its an experience Ive never forgotten, and which has stood me in good stead ever since (Allegra Huston, if youre reading this thank you, Im eternally grateful). Arvon is committed to its learning and participation work, collaborating with schools and partner organisations to bring the residential writing experience to those who otherwise wouldnt have access to it. The biggest buzz I get is from is witnessing how words and creativity can quite literally change lives. Weve had ex-offenders from the Writers in Prison network and bilingual schoolchildren working in their Urdu. Many of the young people arriving at the centres are growing up in a context where books and words arent valued or encouraged. They leave not just better writers, but as more confident people. Witnessing this blossoming of self-esteem is a reminder of the vital importance of the power of self-expression. It reinforces my belief in the transformative potential of my own writing practice. At home, writers might have to justify, explain or even apologise for their writing. At Arvon, writing is the bedrock of everything. Theres something incredibly affi rming about that, about working in an environment where writing isnt a luxury but a necessity. That certainty not only underpins my creative life, it keeps my writing alive.
Rachel Connor writes ction, non-ction and radio drama. Her website and blog (Literary Sisters) is at www.rachelconnorwriter.com. Her debut novel Sisterwives was published in 2011 by Crocus Books. She is currently working on a radio drama commission, The Cloistered Soul, which will be broadcast early in 2014.
Full details of Arvons work, including the programme for this years open courses (launched on 16 January 2013) can be found at www.arvon.org
thenewwriter.com 17
Leanne Bolger
Krystyna Green
Krystyna Green
Krystyna Green Editorial Director for CR Crime talks to us about her career and how her role at Constable & Robinson has morphed and expanded over the years.
MEET THE EDITOR
ve been editorial director of the Constable & Robinson crime list for fteen years now but in fact its been going for as long as I have both of us started out in 1964! So we both have a big birthday coming up and to celebrate fty years of Constable Crime were rebranding the crime list in 2013, one year early, but we couldnt wait to give it its own dedicated imprint. Since Ive been doing the job for so long, Ive come to realise that the qualities of a good commissioning editor are probably also those that a good midwife possesses patience (masses of that) prior to the books delivery, calmness under pressure, encouragement when your author feels like giving up and, above all, enthusiasm and joy when the book is nally published. It takes years to hone these skills especially the patience. But you have to be intuitive too and truly believe in your author and their work when they come to you; half-heartedness in this business is a fast track to failure. I started out in publishing twenty-ve years ago, working for a literary agent before deciding I wanted to spend time on the other side of the publishing fence. I worked for Times Books at the time of their merger with Collins, followed by Macdonald Futura. After that I freelanced for a while, which is possibly the closest I have come to understanding what it is to be a full-time writer. It can be incredibly isolating meetings at least twice a week are a necessity to keep you in the loop and to keep you sane, as the alternatives wandering around in your dressing
gown until 4pm and eating spag bol for breakfast just because its there and you can is not to be recommended in the long term! I ended up at C&R, or rather at Robinson Publishing, in 1997 and have been here ever since. During that time the list has morphed and expanded beyond recognition. When I took over the running of the crime list we were publishing twentytwo hardbacks a year, primarily for the libraries. There were very few trade sales and certainly no supermarket or non-traditional sales deals. Indeed, there was no paperback publishing arm and paperback rights to Constables most notable crime authors Peter Robinson and R D Wingeld were sold out of house. Todays crime list is a very different beast; we publish about sixty-ve titles a year in a variety of formats. We do outstandingly well with series crime and have found our own niche in the marketplace with cosy crime, spearheaded by our star author M. C. Beaton, who writes the Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series. In the past few years the sales structure has expanded to cover a broad range of outlets and e-readers have had a huge impact on the list. Over the past couple of years Ive seen particular authors become outstanding e-sellers, notably James Craig and Alison Bruce, homegrown talent
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Krystyna Green
who excel in social media networking and reap the benets in healthy e-sales. The one thing which all my current authors have in common is an awareness of how important self-promotion is, through whatever media are available to them. Other authors, such as Cath Staincliffe who came up the traditional way (library hardbacks followed by paperback six months later), due to consistent high standards of writing, have also made the successful transition to e-sales. So the CR Crime list now incorporates series crime brought in from the US, homegrown authors with an established backlist and new authors such as Lynn Shepherd and Danny Miller we are hoping to break through in the UK marketplace. Lynns rst novel for us, Tom-All-Alones, was reviewed in every national newspaper. Danny Millers dark and gripping rst novel, Kiss Me Quick, was runner up for the 2012 CWA John Creasy Award and the protagonist of his books has been described as James Bond, if only he had joined the Met. Both these authors now have second books with C&R and we are are working hard with them to garner maximum coverage, both by targeting reviewers and bloggers in the close-knit crime community and participating in crime writing festivals such as those held annually at Bristol and Harrogate.
Relationships are a key element of my role. I have relationships with literary agents that go back over fteen years and when they send me a manuscript its because they know it will appeal to me and the list. Some authors, such as Steven Saylor, Ive been publishing for over ten years, as a result of which we now have an incredibly strong backlist which every so often is revitalised with a new format or cover treatment. I have relationships too with booksellers and sales reps, who let me know about (unagented!) local authors whose appeal deserves a broader platform. My job also involves watching out for authors who are creating a buzz in the US and about once year I visit the various US editors and agents I already have links with, to see whether they have anything new and exciting. This year we publish two great new American talents, Paul Doiron and Elizabeth Hand. Liz, primarily as a fantasy/YA writer, has written two extraordinarily original crime novels, while Doiron follows the tradition of C J Box in setting his crime thrillers in the wilderness of the Maine countryside. In conclusion, it would appear the key to commissioning a successful crime ction list is variety. The job is certainly never dull and I hope that among this list of rich pickings, there must be someone to suit everybodys tastes! www.CRcrime.co.uk
thenewwriter.com
19
What writers block?

LP (Neuro Linguistic Programming) is the study of the structure of excellence, which basically means that if someone can do a thing, then you can do it. All you need to do is discover the structure of your own excellence. How do you do this as a writer? Focus on when youre writing at your best, when the words and ideas are flowing fast and furious, when you read a sentence youve written and think, Wow, Im good. Whats the structure? What is the difference that makes the difference? There will be elements of behaviour (programming) and self-talk (linguistic) but most importantly there will be your beliefs (neuro). Here are some tips that will help you discover your own structure of excellence.
What writers block?
Childrens author and self-help writer Judy Bartkowiak explains how the tools and techniques of Neuro Linguistic Programming can help you get your book published.
If you cant imagine it, it aint gonna happen Exercise those visualising skills and focus your attention on creating an image of your book on sale in a bookshop, on Amazon, seeing people reading it on the train, whatever works for you. This is your book, your visualisation, your compelling outcome.
How much do you want it really? To work as a compelling vision it has to be something you want. There can be a down-side to putting yourself out there. Maybe no-one will buy your book? Maybe youll get some bad reviews? Perhaps you will have to write another one? Face the consequences of achieving your goal and decide to take the risk.
You already have all the resources. Lots of writers I know spend more time arranging their space, getting the household chores done, checking Facebook than they spend writing. The environment has to be just so. This is madness. Instead of trying to write 1,000 words a day, just get on with it and do it. Remember the occasions when you were determined to do something and did it? Somewhere in your life you have the skill to focus and be bloody-minded about doing what you want to do, so get that skill out from the cobwebs, dust it off and get on with writing.
What writers block?
Just who do you think you are? Its all about identity. Im a writer. Thats who I am and its also what I do. Im lots of other things but first and foremost Im a writer. Even if I never have another book published this is who I am. Who are you?
Anchor a resourceful state. You know when youre writing at your best, when the words flow and you are unstoppable? When this is Are your limiting beliefs past their sell by date? happening become conscious of where your energy There are only two types of beliefs resourceful is in your body. Think about your body posture and ones and limiting ones. How can physiology; what would you tell which is which? Its easy. someone notice if they were Judy Bartkowiak is the author of Be a Your I cant is limiting and your watching you right now? happier parent with NLP, Learn Market I can is resourceful. We get these Take a moment to anchor this. Research in a Week, NLP Workbook and beliefs from our childhood but We need an action that you Self Esteem Workbook, all published by thats where they should stay. can repeat when you want Hodder Education. She writes childrens Dump the limiting ones because this state of great writing fiction under the name JudyBee and has they dont serve you and replace even when youre not feeling self-published a number of NLP workbooks them with resourceful beliefs. so great yourself. It can be including the Engaging NLP series. Before you tell me that you cant a squeeze of your earlobe, a Judy can be contacted via The Society change a belief Ill just ask you one piece of music, an image in question, Do you still believe in your mind or just holding your of Authors or through her website www.judybartkowiak.com Father Christmas? favourite pen.
Theres no failure only feedback There are many ways to get valuable feedback as you write; writing groups, The Writers Workshop, writers festivals, review services and of course your fellow writers, family and friends. These can be great resources for those times when you need to disassociate and view your work from a distance with some emotional detachment. Of course, you could just leave it on your computer in a file labelled my novel so far ?
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thenewwriter.com 21
e m i ly be n e t
spreading the word with a blog

B Y E M I LY B E N E T
Emily Benet
Emily Benet does for chandeliers what Bridget Jones did for publishing
Shop Girl Diaries

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hen I was 11 years old, I wrote in my diary, Ive started a new novel today which Im going to get published. I believed that to get a book published all I had to do was write one. It was a shock to discover this was not the case. I later learnt that the book had to be brilliant. Not only that but it had to land on an agents desk at the exact moment they were savouring a fresh cup of coffee, the sun was shining and they were feeling a profound love towards all humanity. Rejection was inevitable. If you were very lucky you would receive a personal letter, and only then to tell you that your book was rubbish but your font had potential. Patience is not my greatest virtue. By 24 I was fed up of waiting for someone to pluck my work out of the slush pile and bless it with their approval. All I wanted to do was write and be read. And so I began a blog about the only thing I really knew anything about, which was working in my Mum's eccentric chandelier shop. At fi rst my readership consisted of a few friends and relatives, but gradually my following grew. I took my weekly deadline very seriously and edited as ruthlessly as if it were going to be printed in a national newspaper.

Six months after I began, Salt Publishing got in touch with me via Facebook and told me they loved the blog. More importantly, they commissioned the book Shop Girl Diaries which is the name of the blog that, four years on, I still write. Since then Ive contributed to three blogging guide books, run several workshops and I even wrote the script for a TV pilot starring Katy Wix as Shop Girl. My experience has been a very positive one but a successful blog doesnt happen over night. Blogging takes time, perseverance and doesnt pay a penny, and yet, if you stick with it, it can reap wonderful rewards. Salt would never have found me if I hadnt opened up to writing online. Having a regular blog increases your chances of visibility and it makes you accessible to those who might be interested in your work. You also become part of a huge interactive community which can stimulate and support you in your writing quest. Blogging doesnt make a novel easier to write or a rejection letter any sweeter, but it does keep you focused and forces you to write when youd rather put your head in the sand. If youre tired of waiting passively in the hopes that one day you might be discovered, then maybe its time to be proactive and embrace the blogosphere. You never know what it might do for you! What is a Blog? The main component of a blog is the blog post which is basically an online column. When you add a new post it appears with the date stamped across the top so readers can see how old it is. Blog posts are automatically archived online in chronological order. A working blog should allow for interaction with readers. People should be able to comment on your work and share it on social networks such as Facebook and Twitter. You dont have to be on either Facebook or Twitter to have your work shared there. Nowadays blogs look much like websites with pages of static content and attractive sidebars. Can anyone write a blog? You do not need to be technically minded to start a blog. Hosted blog platforms such as Blogger.com and Wordpress.com have become increasingly easy to use. When I began blogging a knowledge of html was required but now you can achieve a wonderful looking blog with basic IT skills. If you are familiar with using a Word programme then you are capable of setting up a blog. Personally, I find Blogger the most user-friendly, but other bloggers might disagree. Spend time exploring your blog platform before you begin and if you get stuck, type a question into Google and I can almost guarantee an answer will pop up to help you. What am I supposed to blog about? Writers have a tendency to blog about the writing process, but why limit yourself? The aim is to show off your ability to write, not to prove that you are physically writing. Before you launch into your first blog post, take time to consider what you might follow it up with. Does the idea excite you? If you write about what you think you should write about rather than what you want to write about then your blog probably wont make it past six months. A blog doesnt have to be for life but a readership takes some time to build up so it's worth thinking in terms of years rather than months. Will it excite anybody else? A blog shouldnt be an online diary of what you had for breakfast and how many cups of tea you drink a day. A blog should be either entertaining or informative, or both! Think about what you would be interested in reading and write that. Can you sustain it? Not just physically, but emotionally too. You might be inspired to start a blog because you want to rant about a particularly awful journey to work. Perhaps your follow up post is a rant about the cold coffee you were served at lunch. Ranting might be therapeutic for a while but be careful, it could get exhausting. You dont want a blog that drains you, especially if you intend for it to last. What should my blog look like? Blog platforms allow you to adjust the template, colour, font and margins of your blog page. The most important thing is that your blog is easy to read. There is nothing worse than struggling to read fancy fonts. Keep it simple. If youre comfortable reading it, then other people will be. Think of your blog as an environment that reflects your blog's theme. A blog centered around an interest in Crime novels will look different from one on Romance. You might think a black or grey background will make your blog look sophisticated but is it easy to read? Blogs with dark backgrounds and white writing can be very hard on the eyes. Beware of being a perfectionist. You can play with your blogs design until the cows come home, but what really matters is that your writing is brilliant. Unless of course your blog is on web design, in which case it needs to look pretty slick.
e m i ly be n e t
Blogging doesnt make a novel easier to write or a rejection letter any sweeter, but it does keep you focused and forces you to write when youd rather put your head in the sand.
thenewwriter.com 23
e m i ly be n e t
How long should my post be? You have your idea, signed up to your blog platform, chosen your template and are now ready to write your fi rst blog post. So how long should it be? Bearing in mind that the online reader is usually being bombarded with information, has a potentially shorter attention span and is likely to be scanning, it's best not to make your blog too long. I recommend a word count of around 400 words. This is not a rule; this is a suggestion. However long your blog post is, dont forget to add space around it by breaking up long paragraphs. White space is costly in the printing world, but online its free. How often should I post? Its no good posting one blog every couple of months. To gain a following you need to update regularly. And remember, theres a date at the top of your post, so if people see that you havent updated in a few months theyll assume your blog has come to an early end. Choose a frequency that suits your lifestyle. Some blogs are updated every day but often its because they are collaborative blogs where there are more than one writer. Updating your blog once or twice a week is a good number. Always choose quality over quantity. Better to delay a post than to publish any old rubbish!
Will anyone read it? Theres no point having a blog if youre going to keep it a secret, unless youre writing things you shouldnt be! Tell people about it. Add it to your writing business card and your e-mail signature. If youre on Facebook use your status to let people know when youve added a new post. If youre on Twitter, add your blog link to your profile and tweet when you update. Think carefully about the titles of your posts as they need to hook your reader. The title is also a link which is indexed in search engines such as Google. If youre writing about homeopathy then add homeopathy in the title Emily Benet is a London based because thats what people writer. Her rst book Shop Girl will be searching for! Before Diaries was published by Salt posting make sure youve Publishing and was based on used keywords to describe her blog, which was voted your post in the label/tag winner of the Completely section of your blog. Novel Author Blog Awards in Gaining a readership takes 2010. She is currently writing time. Your main concern is a serialised novel on Wattpad to write the best blog you called Spray Painted Bananas possibly can, because when and runs Blogging for Beginners people fi nd a good thing, they workshops. She blogs at love to spread the news. www.emilybenet.blogspot.com
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s hor t s t or y
SHORT STORY
SOMETHING NOT QUITE RIGHT

B Y LY N N E W O O D W A R D
nna was on her knees in the snow at the foot of a tree, her head bent over, face hidden. Rita sat with her back pressing against the bark, legs stretched in front of her, staring ahead. The last light of the short day had fi nally slipped away. They had been silent for about ten minutes, and lost for about six hours. One way, and then another, they had paced along possible paths in the forest, drifting snow following them at each wrong turn. Anna had fi nally sunk into the snow and refused to walk any further. Rita looked at Annas crouched figure. I dont know how you think this is going to help, she said, shaking her head, just sitting here, doing nothing. Anna didnt move. Im tired. We dont know where to go. Its pointless. Im so cold, said Rita. Wouldnt it be better to keep walking? At least wed keep warm. She stood up. Come on, Anna. Anna still didnt move. Rita got hold of her arm and began to pull. Get the hell off me! What are you doing? We have to walk. Come on. Rita pulled again on Annas arm. Anna lashed out at her mother with her other arm, fighting her off. Rita let go and turned her back on her. Anna shifted her legs to one side and leaned back against the tree, her arms clutching her knees.
thenewwriter.com 25
shor t s t or y
You wont help yourself, will you? said Rita, finally. She sat down next to Anna, placing her hand on Annas arm. I just think you dont try to make the best of things thats all. We all have choices, Anna. Like now. We have a choice. One dead end or another. Life is full of opportunities, if you only look, Anna. Uh-huh. Opportunities. Life is full of opportunities. So tell me. About all the opportunities youve had. Yes, do tell. Anna grasped her knees a bit tighter. Stuck in that house, with that man. Hardly. I dont know what you mean, said Rita. You know damn well what I mean. There was a pause. Then, Please, Anna, lets just keep walking? No. Im staying here. You walk if you like, if you think itll make any difference I dont. Anna shut her eyes. The snow continued to fall: millions of soft white fragments, falling and resting on branches; falling on Ritas boots, on Annas jacket, on Ritas thin blonde hair peering out from under her woollen hat; falling on Annas knees pointing up to the sky, and on Ritas gloved hand resting on Annas arm.
Winter was slowly loosening its grip. Water collected in pools on the grey grass, and trickled down paths to the lake. The melting snow was releasing its prisoners, one by one. Looking from his window, Per thought he could see the skeleton of an old box, some bits of broken veranda, and maybe the remains of a window frame he had forgotten to put away in the summer. He could just make out their blackened, rotting parts poking up at odd angles through the remaining piles of wet snow. He went out to clear them up before his visitor arrived. Karin had rung this morning. He didnt really remember her. Shed been a friend of his sisters, or so she said. He didnt think of Anna as someone who had friends, though there were enough people after their disappearance who claimed to have known that his mother and sister had planned to run away to Spain, or some such nonsense. When Karin arrived he ushered her into the living room and offered her a glass of wine, which she accepted. He didnt recognise her; she looked older, more competent than his sister. Shed left the village, of course had another life now. They sat at right angles to one another around a low table, looking out of the wide bay windows at the fading light. Per its about Anna, Karin began. No surprise there then. Oh yes? he replied. Im sorry to have to ask, but She took a breath, and looked down. To go straight to the point, what
26
I wanted to ask need to ask is do you think Anna was happy? Happy? Its just this feeling Ive had, for a long time now Per frowned. Only, Karin paused again. Well, its this: all they had to do was keep walking, to keep warm. They could have saved themselves, couldnt they? Its as if do you think its possible that they didnt want to be found? Pers fingers repeatedly smoothed out the material of the arm of the chair as Karin continued talking. When we were at school I felt something wasnt quite right for Anna. I ignored it at the time. I feel so bad, when I think about it. It was more than two years ago his mother and sister had disappeared, out looking for a Christmas tree. Now they were dead. No bodies found, but dead for sure. What possible good could come of talking like this? Im sorry, to have to ask. Per, do you think they might have chosen to die? Per listened to the familiar sound of the clock ticking. He had slept in a room with it, woken with it, lived with it most of his life. His mother had always been there for him. It was unthinkable she could have chosen to leave him. Unthinkable. Per? Karins quiet voice demanded his attention. Was it him that made their lives so miserable? Pers breathing quickened. Who? Karin leaned forward. Your grandfather. His grandfather. His grandfather had gone into a home, when his mother and Anna had disappeared. Per had inherited his clock, that was all. You must have known how it was you lived in the same house. He thought of the downstairs room where he used to sleep as a child, next to the clock. His mother in the kitchen, her blonde hair tied up in a brightly patterned scarf, frying mincemeat. His father out at work. His grandfather asleep upstairs, in the room he shared with Anna. Anna sitting quietly on the back door steps, cleaning her grandfathers shoes. Per had moved away from home the year his father died, leaving his mother and Anna to live in the house with his grandfather. He had been glad to move away. Karin rested her hand on his forearm. I feel there was something not quite right, at home, for Anna. And Rita. To do with him. Is there anything you know that might help me understand this Per? Anything? Living in a small house, things could sometimes feel intense. Uncomfortable, in a way. One day his mother laid out his grandfathers clean shirts on the living room table. His grandfathers thick arm had swept them into a crumpled heap on the floor, and his swivelling rheumy eyes had
s hor t s t or y
watched as Anna picked them all up. Per had gone out, and when he came home, his mother wore fresh lipstick and asked him what hed like for his tea. Was that right? How would he know? Thats how it was. Per crossed his arms, allowing Karins hand to fall away. Look, Karin, there isnt anything, that I can think of. Really. No clues. None. He bent down to pick up an envelope that had fallen onto the floor. They went into the forest, got lost, and died end of story. Theres nothing more to be said. Im sorry. Per looked over his back garden. There was more tidying-up to be done, and he wondered how much longer Karin would stay.
Per would think, though, about what Karin had said; he would allow these memories to surface slowly, and then settle. Three years later, as the snow melted, his mothers and sisters bones would be found under a tree in the forest, just some hundred metres from where they had left their car. By then, Per would have already disposed of the clock.
Lynne Woodward lives and writes in England and Sweden. Originally from London, she now spends a lot of the year in Kiruna in the far north of Sweden, where she and her partner run a bed and breakfast called 68 degrees (which is the latitude north). She is inspired by the landscape and the way it can reveal character by the way people interact with it. She also writes a blog about her life in the north, www.blog.68degrees.se
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thenewwriter.com 27
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A collage of words
Poetry in focus
A collage of words
B Y A B E G A I L M OR L EY
ound poetry is all about taking text from one source, perhaps an un-poetic one, such as a newspaper, instruction manual, or recipe, or a literary source such as a novel, and using them to create a poem. At one end of the spectrum the poet keeps all the words and the order, but adds their own line breaks, or they might add additional words and change the order. At the other end, the poet might harvest material which they quote within their own poems. Noted and quoted famous poets took text from other sources and put them into their poems: Ezra Pound used official documents in parts of The Cantos, and Eliot included material from Shakespearean theatre and Greek mythology in The Waste Land. Evelyn Waugh took the title for his 1934 novel, A Handful of Dust straight from The Waste Land : And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Chinua Achebe did the same, taking the title for his novel, Things Fall Apart from Yeatss The Second Coming. To create a whole collection based on found poetry is hugely challenging and time-consuming, but Pam Zinnemann-Hope masters the concept in her collection, On Cigarette Papers (Ward Wood Publishing, 2012). To find out how this book came about, I contacted Pam and her publisher Adele Ward. When my mother [Lottie] died in 1990, two years after my father [Kurt], I found an archive of letters, photos and objects that she had left me, says Zinnemann-Hope.Amongst them was a tiny pile of cigarette papers with writing in Russian, pencilled in her hand. The book begins with a foreword and dramatis personae. A chronology of events is included at the back of the book, as well as a list of her sources.
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And Im Clearing Up the House Now youre gone, mother, I wear your pink angora cardigan. I like its softness against my neck and wrists, your smell of cigarettes and Joy de Patou. I find it edgy in the house without you. Youve put everything in order for me, even tied the right key to each suitcase in the attic. You would! You know that Russian proverb? Its in Solzhenitsyn: No. Dont! Dont dig up the past. Dwell on the past and you lose an eye. It goes on: Forget the past and youll lose two eyes. Up until this point she had only known the bare bones of her familys history, but with help from three of her mothers friends, Erna, Tilde Goldschmidt/Goldsmith and Elizabeth May, she began putting the pieces back together. Erna was a German Communist who ended up in the UK. Zinnermann-Hopes parents met her in Russia and her story is told in one of the poems: Kharkov, August 1937 Ernas Tale How come my husband is arrested for crimes against the state? I need to find comfort. I want to see my friends. I set off for Kurt and Lotties in the heat. Their landlady doesnt speak, she points at their boarded up door.
A collage of words
So in 1996 Zinnermann-Hope began her research and writing. The search for a family history and search for self-identity is what drove her on to write: I have no brothers, sisters, cousins, no-one else to share the loss of home with. Gathering the material together was a huge task, especially as it was essential that Zinnemann-Hope found not only her voice, but those of her characters. It was a process of accumulation. Structuring it was the most difficult. It was workshopped at RADA with some fi ne actors, and this helped to pinpoint the gaps and pull the structure around. Workshopping with other poets also helped that process. Ultimately it had to fulfi l its dramatic imperative. At her launch at the Poetry Cafe, she read alongside actors, Anthony Shuster (War Horse) and Deborah Finlay (Cranford) bringing the book alive. Adele Ward said, Hearing Anthony Shuster reading the voices of the German men, alternating with the various women's voices read by Pam and Deborah Findlay, really made me realise how she had changed the voices for the characters and caught them so well. I get a number of submissions about the Holocaust, but there is something different about this story, says Adele Ward. A woman who is the daughter of a Nazi is determined to marry the Jewish man she falls in love with, even though that means being disowned by her family, risking being caught, as her father puts in a personal phone call to Gring to close the borders, and putting up with prison under Stalin's purges in Russia and then incarceration on the Isle of Man when they fi nally get to England. We would all want to fi nd love like that, so it adds something positive to such an emotional depiction of an important part of history.
Every Night In Her Sleep (My mothers dream) It draws me down. Deep under turquoise the water is lapping me. It keeps retreating. I can feel the yelling lodged in my chest. I open my mouth: no sound comes out. I try to push it out. I get no breath. And it keeps coming back. Day after day I grasp at straws of sunlight; Im beached on hot dry sand. Night after night I swim and stand in this stiing sea. I want to breathe. I can feel the silkiness of the water. I can open my mouth. I want to yell. My face is bursting, held in by the water, the power of the water. And it keeps returning. On Cigarette Papers hooks you immediately and is almost impossible to put down. I read it in one sitting and was blown away by it. I needed to reread it several times to take in the enormity of the project and the beauty of the individual poems. I agree with Zinnemann-Hope when she says, Its an extraordinary story, a cracking good story to tell and it takes in much of the turmoil of 20th century in Europe. It demanded to be told. When a poet uses found poetry, they should set their own constraints by analysing the material, selecting creatively and retelling something that needs to be told. It is up to the poet to decide whether or not to use only found material, with no words of their own or to include just a few snippets from another source. Writing found poetry can help a poet in a number of ways. It can act as a trigger a playful way of releasing our creativity; join words together that we werent expecting and give a different slant to our writing, often taking us somewhere new. By responding to various genres we develop our interpretive skills; use language that might be alien to us and make something ordinary, poetic. Our editorial skills gain importance we need to craft our piece; shape our lines; tighten the structure. It is not just collecting words; it is collecting the right words for our purpose. So select your scissors and get snipping.
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POETRY IN FOCUS for Alfred J

Do you remember last April I wanted to play truth or Dare? nally nd a way to Disturb your inequanimity, tip The bowl full of stars over, bet the Universe on your reply. E.E. Nobbs
23 Days of Summer
Twenty-three days, and then again the change, although there is the blended time when all seems one. The seasons' dividing lines are more calendar markings for setting seasonal dreams. Twenty-three days then will my wardrobe change? Will ights that course the summer sky at night become less clear and lose all their allure no longer causing hopeful thoughts to rise? Why must after supper coffee at 8 p.m., on still warm chairs retaining afternoon sun, dissolve to late October hurried cups; the sliding patio door now sealed shut? Twenty-three days and absorbing what is left, like garden herbs straining along the fence, and dried out sunowers not angling to the sky with the vigor of their robust days of strength. Michael Ugulini
How The Cat Got Your Tongue Hawk moth

Not at but actual loggerheads, at least that's what we called them, the noisy hawk moths apping round my bedroom light on summer evenings. Too scared for sleep in case a furry body brushed against my eyelid, apped its furry way inside my mouth for me to choke on feelers, wings makes me smile to think about it now I've dangers of the real and present kind keeping me awake at night. This back of mine for starters got so bad I couldn't pull my socks on, had me thinking I was nished, crocked. That's why I'm sitting ramrod straight instead of slouched, buttocks clenched, doing pelvic tilts and getting funny looks on the metro home from work. The great thing is this new regime of sitting right has taken years off me bending stretching feeling supple. Im a boy again caught between his fear of dark and furry bodies apping at the light. Larry Marsh
It slipped through an open window, one July night. A ginger tom; a ragged ear, one white foot. You were almost asleep when it padded over, jumped onto your bed and stared, its purr low as a distant lawn-mower. Sat on your chest, nudged lips apart with its nose. Its whiskers tickled. You felt oddly calm. Its bite was fast and clean. There was very little pain. It took your tongue back to a barn and nailed it to the wall, with all the other tongues; slept for an hour on a bale of straw, then slipped out, under a slice of moon, snifng the air. Catherine Smith
POETRY IN FOCUS Dark To Themselves

They were dark to me then, the people of my holiday towns who slumped in busses and sweated in summer windows while I carried buckets of salt water to ll my castle moats or sat in caravans with summer books listening to the rain thunder on the metal roof just as I am dark to them now, invisible to the boys with tents and pockets full of pills standing at the bus stop waiting for the bus to Glastonbury or T in the Park, or even the old men in straw hats on the road to Ilfracombe still dreaming the old dreams while my bus turns for work and their cars turn for the motorway, the dream-way, the sleeping in the car and the ve a.m. wake up to bacon charred on the side of the road, tea with powdered milk and days like letters guaranteeing good news waiting to be opened one at a time not rejection after rejection and this is the real world, they tell me, the one we all have to live in; the rest is just a dream though its more real than any factory, brighter than the dulled sun burning through wintered eyes when the boy in me the best of me looks to the open road and still refuses to die. Ian Mullins
man falling
the sea's mouth was full of diamonds scudding across the surface like a swarm of silver bees but the ocean itself was silent hiding its charts in its pockets did you notice? even the trees like passers-by on a busy street pretended they had no part in this when we saw him falling it was clear he hadnt known water could be as hard as rocks on a Cretan hillside I felt so sad knowing hed started the day like the rest of us on our way to work ambitious condent wrapped in his own thoughts expecting too much from everything Caroline Carver
Magnolia stellatas blooms

slip now out of furry bud-sheaths like young hands from wool-thick mittens. The small trees limbs are full of petals cool, white skin with streaks of pink. They unfurl into smooth ngers. (All winter they were tight sts, afraid of frost-bite: sore, pinched.) Lets blame the extremity pains on age, the cold, fatigue. Ad nauseum. Time spent in darkness. Ive self-diagnosed osteoarthritis and bromyalgia. Who knows. And Im menopausal. And Advil 3, 200 mg. And omega-3 pills branded Joy. Cant help it break open, stretch, rotate wrists, bend bits, arch, undulate. Aches (partly) turn into tingles... realize (nally) its April.
Again.
E. E. Nobbs
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POETRY IN FOCUS On Visiting The Ulster Museum

We make our way through the winding corridors and rooms of the recently refurbished Ulster Museum and look at the relics of times detritus all arranged and displayed in strict chronological order from the Mesozoic era through to Ancient Egypt and the Armada and we read the snippets of information which help explain these grand narratives of past cultures intended and complete and we follow the arrows around the museum from beginning, middle and end until we reach near the exit our own recent past of broken glass and shattered lives collected and preserved in neat little rows and boxes Oliver Mort
Proof
In times of universal deceit, telling the truth will be a revolutionary act. George Orwell How shall I lie to you? Let me count the ways: I shall lie by my silence, quiet as my oldest scar; I shall lie by inference, letting you believe your choice; I shall lie by omission, carefully removing clues of words; I shall lie with my tongue, lips, brow, hands, footsteps and ngerprints the easier to be consistent; I shall lie when it suits you, and doesnt suit me; I shall lie when it suits me, and doesnt suit you; I shall lie recreating the past, necessarily; I shall lie about the future, unintentionally; I shall lie in broad daylight and semi-darkness, with my eyes closed and open; by your side and remotely; I shall lie without meaning to, from habit and instinct; I shall lie to myself, rst, to show you my honest face. Heidi Williamson
Palette
An angel is burning.
Inspired by the painting by Anselm Kiefer
Thin ames feather the black bones of its wrecked wings. A blank eye is moving over cratered cities as wings y up in soot and descent begins, the dead-drop over Dresden, Kabul, Sarajevo, over the gates of Dachau an artists palette collides with concrete, turns to kindling at survivors feet. James Kilner
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POETRY IN FOCUS The Shoe of Night

We slipped into the shoe of night, saw two children discard their bicycles hepsi mepsi on the front lawn, then spin a hint of a hoop up to a crescent moon. Beatrice leads the nuns to their night time ofces, her long hair lifts like a cloud in the silver air, words swarm like bees in our brains but none of us sings, none of us sings, none of us sings. I climb a wall twelve centuries into the future and Im not coming down. Winds toppled the scarecrows like dominoes, a tabby patrols the line of lettuce, fat nests of rooks are blobs on bare trees. Where did those children go? Their parents peer from the windows of the white house. A nun tells me theyve cycled to the moon. Her ninth century dreams are full of wheels and cogs. There are walls everywhere here on earth, around gardens and houses, tumbled down in the nunnery, hiding nothing. Heaven has no walls just its grey secret of rain rising above us. The nuns le out of the church, pulled by the waves down to Martyrs Bay, the grey lift and drag of the sea sucking them in. No pilgrim arrival tonight, just the devotions of water. If the shoe of night ts, wear it, cry the children from the crescent moon, theyve ignited Venus, its ancient light hangs like a lantern. We stand around, like kings and queens on a grave slab, propped up in the box they call history. Were wondering where those children went, the ones who look like our shadows. Victoria Field
Battle Statistics On Vacation Or When Numbers Are Not For Counting

Walking on the listless shingle by a presumably indifferent sea he murmured to any passing gull prepared to listen, he murmured how they die, these numbers, though numbers are not supposed to die; however that may be, he was thinking, thinking of the children: surely to make up the number they must count them too. Though privileged these numbers, now mortal as ourselves he murmured; surely they must seek to be unnumbered, beyond the immeasurable reach of arithmetic, zero seekers to a woman to a man, to a child; their goal that of which there can be no less; zero seekers drawn to a place, a universe where numbers do not count, where matter has, the shape, and the content of, vacant space Who could possibly desire less? Alfred Gosschalk
The Goldilocks Zone

Hold me. Happiness is a how, not a what; a talent, not an object, said Herman Hesse. If I could freeze this time with you one day over before the next begins I would. It all feels simple, skin on skin, you on my lips, the smell of us. Just right, said Goldilocks. But she was somewhere she did not belong and the bears were coming home. Lets sleep. Emer Gillespie
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INSTEAD OF A CARD
4.95 EACH
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Each of these includes a poetry pamphlet, a card and a bookmark on which you can write your greeting. Simple but clever. We love these for friends and relatives who enjoy poetry.
In Memoriam: Poems of Bereavement 5.95
Ten Poems about Fathers
Thirteen Poems of Revenge
Ten Poems about Sheep
Ten Poems about Cats
Ten Poems about Dogs
Ten Poems about Gardens
Twelve Poems about Birds
Ten Poems about Mothers
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Ten Poems about Bicycles
Ten Poems about London
Ten Poems about Love
Ten Poems about Mothers
Ten Pre-Raphaelite Poems
Ten Poems about Puddings
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Ten Poems by The Romantics
Ten Poems about Tea
POETRY IN FOCUS On Tow

We hover at the end of the tow bar poised like the kestrel above, which rakes the hedgerow with keen eyes, as we watch the rear of the van for signals ready to respond not instigate; Stella grips the wheel, arm muscles taut against a familiar road rendered alien. Unnerved by the blank view ahead, I exploit my passenger status, lose myself in the autumn, in a sky marked by the toddler scrawl of vapour trails, bold starts and stops crisscrossing the blue, ending in the downward trajectory of wavering interest; a shivering V of Canada geese catch the sun, white stomachs sparklingthey make their own journey, carefully maintaining their position with their colleagues. At the roundabout our heads swivel in unison, eyes widening at the approaching trafc, the timing out of our hands; the bar grates its own protest beneath the car as we proceed, swinging into the gyre. We accept the mechanic's autonomy, hover; await the chance to regain control. Ali Pardoe
Where Are You From?

(On Alighiero Boietti's Mappa) After forty years of answering: 'England. Yes. One hundred percent English.' I nd myself by this map made up of ag-coloured countries searching for that one small place, believing it would be right for embroiderers to blend green and gold to merge with the whole island. And I nd myself relieved to see its tiny red, white and blue, not through any trace of national pride but in case I may have to answer that question 'Nowhere'. Adele Ward
First of the Season

Down from the cab I dismount Into the misty air of the market, Where sound is colour And colour is everyone. My father gropes at loose potatoes, Massages their life-dirt into his ngers, Tosses away the peculiar ones Appraises the larger with touch alone, The smaller weighed by the eyes. Some potatoes, I notice, Are mere knuckles of vegetation, I can clasp them like marbles, Muddying my palms into prints as well. He sacks the potatoes rigorously, The brown burlap, soundless Between esh thuds of vegetables, His lips tally each unit Amidst the haggle of the market crowd. He hoists the sack, As tall, I guess, as my nine Years, Knots his biceps to the heave, Slackening the weight across his back; He too can shoulder the harvest. Ashleigh Davies
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POETRY IN FOCUS Disposition

I think I was born with a tank of cheer and would dose you with some if only you'd dare to drink, my dearthe fact you don't being my fault, I fear, for insistently acting so cheerfully dumb. But it's only because of the way you appear from afar, about to change your mind, and come. James B. Nicola
The Walnut Baby
after Leonardo da Vinci's Studies of the Foetus in the Womb Looks like a split walnut, a protective carapace with an upright baby. Not the exible sac which let you stretch like a synchronised swimmer Dad's voice your soundtrack. Relief when you turned upside down, ready for the dive of your life; the everyday miracle of birth. The walnut foetus cowers, folded in on itself, hiding its unseeing eyes; like an image used to hound women into incubation. A not-yet life that would be a breech birth, exploration of thought, drawn by a man without reference to woman. Emma Lee
Toadstools
Drenched in velvet with darkest mosses, where the green white hellebore grows witchy and wild, under the shadows of fallen branches, you'll nd them there; hoodies huddled together, poisonous and up to no good. Ayelet McKenzie
Transient
A ower's petals lie dislocated on the table, gathered in sad montage, fallen like careless acrobats balancing their scent across a whole room. Yesterday a still life learning to impress, today an artist's nightmare. No sign of vandalism, just the message that's been left as a reminder. Gordon Scapens
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POETRY IN FOCUS Summer Man

I long to be a Summer Man and walk through waves of corrugated heat with the sun on my shoulder the world would be new again. I remember a summer of peace when my old town fried in its pan alley joy. The dogs and cats slept safe under a blue re sky. The air hummed with the summer song a crazy mix of bird calls insect wings and always happy lawn mowers. Then I heard thunder rolling buL no lightning forked the day. Overhead a ghter jet ripped the heavens in two with its viper trail a tear on the face of God. Phil Knight
Ivinghoe
Directly below Crows, close skeined Jump and jitter Shining wood sprites Blazed onto open ground Jet shadow Rips in rows Of ghost greened corn Carpeting parched heath Pocked with chalk Walker breasts the rise Hatless, haunted by heat I sit, static in silence Thought metered By putterings Of the ice cream van Cars glare Glassed in sun Glowing pods Skinned steel Waiting to animate Conversation lowers, lulls Mercury rises ln clear blue Glider turns a wing Nearly real Sun rains down relentless Ancient breezes blow We dream Mark Gifford
The Snow Leopard at Wannsee

Is considering the point of yet another poem about the turn of season for tonight you can taste the Steppe in the air-frost can feel the leaves point and smell in the mist the steel and blood of campaigns lost of hard-fought harvests gone. He can see the leaves curl on the planes and linden, veins stiff and brown and done and by the lake hear the call of the Caucasus south eastern song where high white wastes might slip past his fur, stalking svelte Saiga and with their blood anoint his clouded coat until the summer melt. Colin Begg The Snow Leopard was Highly Commended in the 2011 Prose & Poetry Prizes
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w r i t i ng t o ge t h e r , w r i t i ng a l on e
Using small ads from your local paper
WRITING TOGETHER WRITING ALONE

In this, the rst of a new series, we will outline a writing exercise that you may wish to try, either with your writing group or for your own pleasure. We would love to hear how you got on with this exercise, and hope to publish examples of writers results. Also, if you have any exercise that went down well with your group, or that you found particularly helpful as a starting place for yourself, please let us know, and maybe it will appear in a future issue of The New Writer.
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Using small ads from your local paper
w r i t i ng t o ge t h e r , w r i t i ng a l on e
BARGAIN BUYS
Picture of Japanese scene (Mount Fuji in background) printed on silk. Strong, vibrant colours. Good frame and mount. Approx 20*40". 10. Phone
U S I N G S M A L L A D S F R O M Y O U R L O C A L PA P E R Example: From The Herald 5 February 2010 Result: Letter from Felicity Brown to Ursula Williams
Dear Ursula,
Your behaviour has left me feeling weak and ill. I am devastated. How could you treat me like this? I have always been a good aunt to you. You have no inkling of the sacrices I have made for you over the years. Never having been blessed with children of my own, I have always made you welcome in my home. Ive taken you on holiday with me, bought you expensive gifts and provided you with so many little treats, which your parents were unable to afford. I never expected anything in return but I did hope to be treated with a little consideration, especially now that your poor uncle has passed on, leaving me lonely and bereft. When I spotted the advert you had placed in the Bargain Buys column of the Herald I felt ready to faint. I am sure you must be aware of that pictures history and what it has meant to me since my childhood. Im not sure how it came into my mothers possession but throughout World War 2 she would draw the attention of us children to it as a symbol of hope. Our country was at war with the people of Japan but better times were ahead. What a majestic sight! Mount Fuji printed on silk in such beautiful, strong, vibrant colours at a time when everything around us seemed drab and grey. How I have always longed to see the original; Japans highest mountain and one of the holiest sites in the whole of that fascinating country, so wasted on its warlike people. Had I been cast in a selsh mould, a fault so glaringly obvious in some people of my acquaintance, I would have saved every penny in order to take a trip out there instead of lavishing so much on you. Too late now, of course. I have always been certain that my dear parents meant me to have that picture when they passed on; but your mother, who never showed me any real consideration, got her grasping hands on it rst. I know one shouldnt speak ill of the dead, but it is the living Daisy I have in mind. Always my big, bossy sister right to the end. She made a point of telling me that she had given it to you when she made her last move. No room for it in her sheltered at, she said. And she knew, she knew how much I had always wanted it I would have made room for it even in the tiniest hovel. When my carer rang your number, which you had so blatantly appended to your nasty little advert, she was told not only that the picture was already sold, but that it fetched a paltry 8! 8 for what to me was a priceless family heirloom! I might as well tell you straight out that I have already been in touch with my solicitor and made certain changes to my Will! Any attempt at future contact between us would be futile. From your aunt in great distress,
F elicity Brown
Thank you to Olive Drakes for this. At the urgings of her writing group Olive went on to write two more letters; Ursulas response to Felicity and a nal letter revealing a twist in the story, and it all started with a small ad. So take up your pens and get writing
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m e e t t h e a ge n t
Maggie Phillips
Maggie Phillips
Maggie Phillips of the Ed Victor Literary Agency shares some thoughts on her role as an agent and gives some good advice.
MEET THE AGENT
ou have an idea for a novel? Id like to encourage you. Let your creative imagination run free. The story is developing nicely: agents will be out-charming each other to sign you up. There will be a frenzied auction of your UK publishing rights, and then a prestigious sale to a US publisher, followed by at least twenty translation deals. Erica Wagner will devote a whole page of The Times book review section to your work, suggesting you may have started a new genre. Youll be interviewed by Mariella Frostrup. You will be packing in the fans at literature festivals. Film rights will be sold: your moment on the red carpet (what will you wear?), and Ryan Gosling will thank you, tears in his eyes, Oscar in hand, for writing him the best role he will ever play. You are choosing furniture for that house in the South of France you have always wanted. You havent written a word yet? I thought so. If we were to read every word of every submission we receive here at Ed Victor Ltd, we would not have time to promote the interests of our existing clients. Agents are in business to take care of their author clients, to maximise revenue for them (and for the agency) from publishing deals and the sales of fi lm,
stage, audio and radio rights. We take a good look at every submission, and if something grabs our attention, then we will read all of it, and share the material with colleagues. This is how we like to receive submissions: a short letter, telling us a bit about yourself, a one-page outline/ synopsis of your book, and two or three chapters. Thats enough for us to decide if we would like to read more, with a view to possible representation. And dont give up the day job when I read a letter on the lines of I have given up my career in the City in order to concentrate full-time on writing my heart sinks, and I know I will not be able to handle the expectations of such a person. Its an appealing thought you dont have to go out in the rain! You can write in your pyjamas, you can write in bed! But bear in mind that only a very few authors are successful enough not to have to take on other work. Read Stephen Kings book On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. The advice is excellent (dont use adverbs I totally absolutely agree) and along with it you get the compelling story of his early years and struggles. Stephen says he does not work out his plots in advance, but lets the characters take over. Pay heed to any author who has sold hundreds of millions of copies.
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m e e t t h e a ge n t
Maggie Phillips
Personally, I am easily lured into a book by a vivid opening sentence. We all know the two most famous ones: Anna Karenina and Pride and Prejudice. Both are philosophical in tone, but heres one with action, The Marquise of O by Heinrich von Kleist: In M, a large town in northern Italy, the widowed Marquise of O, a lady of unblemished reputation and the mother of several well-bred children, published the following notice in the newspapers: that, without her knowing how, she was in the family way; that she would like the father of the child she was going to bear to report himself; and that her mind was made up, out of consideration for her people, to marry him. Wowza! What is going on what is going to happen! How can you resist reading on?
Many years ago my boss, Ed Victor, was away in America, but had told me that I should expect a manuscript by Josephine Hart to be delivered to our office. The manuscript arrived early one morning, and I thought I would just read the first sentence .....: There is an internal landscape, a geography of the soul; we search for its outlines all our lives. Three hours later, Ed called and was somewhat put
out to hear I had spent the entire morning reading Damage, and had not done a good many things he had asked me to take care of. But once he had read it himself, all was understood. I would love to be sent more sequel books. There are dozens of Jane Austen follow-ups, and none of them is entirely satisfactory, and some of them are dreadful. Im waiting for a book about Kitty, the least defined of the five Bennett sisters, always in the shadow of lurid Lydia. At the end of Pride and Prejudice we have the impression that she benefits from her older sisters marriages. But tell me more! Surely Kitty would have met someone nice (or someone really nasty) when staying with the Darcys at Pemberley? But the sequel I would really like to read is to Anna Karenina. Yes, yes, we have lost our heroine, but she had a baby daughter, Anni what would have happened to her? The stain of illegitimacy would have lingered throughout her life, and who would have brought her up? Karenin was probably her legal guardian, or perhaps Vronskys mother would have cared for her? Anni would have lived to see the Russian Revolution. Research would be necessary, but what a story this could be. Are you really going to write that book? Good luck! And if its an imaginative sequel, or has a brilliant first sentence, then please send it to me!
Please see the article by Mark Le Fanu on page 55.
Shakespeare House 168 Lavender Hill London SW11 5TG
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w r i t i ng spa c e s
Rebecca Smith
H. G. Smith
W R I T I N G S PA C E S
BY REBECC A SMITH
A half-constructed summerhouse A
writer is meant to have a beautiful retreat. Dylan Thomas had a boathouse, Roald Dahl, an elaborate shed, and Vita Sackville-West had an Elizabethan tower at Sissinghurst Castle. Somewhere along the way I forgot to acquire a cabin or an eyrie of my own. I have completed four and three-quarter novels and a nonfiction book but still dont have a proper desk. Although mine isnt a huge oeuvre, people do sometimes ask me how I manage. I have an almost full-time job and three children, but have never believed that the pram in the hall is the enemy of creativity. My fi rst babys arrival spurred me on to fi nish the novel that had been flopping around in my notebooks for years. When your time is rationed, you learn the discipline that a writer needs. A writer has to create space for herself - the space to think and read and to make false starts. Ive learnt how to do that, to construct my writing space wherever I am. Im good at writing bits of things and at picking up where I left off.
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w r i t i ng s pa c e s
Rebecca Smith
I always carry writing materials with me; I have learnt that this is necessary. I can remember fitting a whole scene onto a supermarket receipt when suddenly I had a few precious minutes but no other paper. It is probably because I am spectacularly lazy that I dont much like writing at a desk. I would far rather write sitting on a sofa, or in a caf, or on a train or lounging on a bed. The liminal place between sleeping and being fully awake is often where composition begins. I tell my students this. The university timetablers often give my creative writing seminars 9 oclock starts. The students arent that pleased, but I think it can be useful. My students wont be aware (or probably interested) that their tutor has been up since six. Their tutor should have been writing at that early hour, but has probably just been answering emails, vacuuming, seeing her children off to school and college, or marking assignments. Getting up and writing straight away is the secret of getting things done. I love my university work, but marking over eight hundred thousand words of creative writing each year does take its toll. My own writing gets pushed out during term-time and I sometimes feel as though my characters are lost in the woods or trapped wherever I have left them, poor things, sitting about clutching cold cups of tea. Its impossible to write a complete novel in a university vacation, so I have to find ways of writing all year round. My editor at Ivy Press for Jane Austens Guide to Modern Lifes Dilemmas was a hard taskmistress. The moment Id sent her something it would come flying back with requests that I cut thirty seven words, add further footnotes or solve the problem of an orphanB. I wrote the last parts of it sitting on the floor in my sons room, working while he slept. He had what we now think was whooping cough, and was off school for weeks. I had to write when I wasnt looking after him, or teaching or marking. My partner took time off work and my mum helped too. Whooping cough is so violent that sufferers often throw up. This isnt how it should be in the Sissinghurst writing tower of my imagining. I sent off the final chunk of copy for my Jane book exactly a year after Id first been to visit the Ivy Press offices in Lewes. I am a non-driver and had travelled by train along the coast from Southampton, changing at Brighton. Days out like this are a treat. My life is very samey (home, family, work, school concerts and meetings, and not as many cultural events as Id like) but this suits me. I half dread our summer holidays and almost punched the air when I read that Anne Tyler dreaded hers too. What writers often need is stability, for nothing to be happening. I have to fit writing around other things, but if the other things are Just Normal Things, it is so much easier. Perhaps the reason that I dont really have a functioning desk is because the whole house is a giant desk to me. I like writing on the sofa when theres nobody in, or in our so-called dining room where the growing piles of books mean that the walls are moving inwards like those garbage-crushing walls in
Star Wars. When its not too cold I can work in our attic bedroom. We live on a hill and I like to think that I can see as far as Chawton, but Im probably deceiving myself. I have a small office at the university. It was constructed by boxing off part of a corridor. One wall is a huge window that looks out over the tennis courts, I even have a little terrace; however Im usually so busy seeing students that I cant spend time writing there. An Ikea Alve corner workstation was meant to change my life, to make me more efficient and productive. Its a big pine cupboard with doors that open to reveal, in theory, a beautifully organized space with a pull-out surface for a laptop. There is enough room for a printer, convenient holes for cables, and lovely deep shelves for books and files. The books are triple-parked now, but somehow it has never made the transition from big pine cupboard to perfect desk. Its useful for storing work-related stuff and for hiding the clutter of family life, but who wants to stare into a cupboard when they are writing? I need a window. Last year we bought a summerhouse. The idea is that it will be that longed for retreat, that peaceful place to read and write. My sons are already talking about dartboards, punch bags and snooker tables, but I will stand firm. Only those things that are beautiful and useful will be allowed in the summerhouse, and that doesnt include sports equipment. For months the summerhouse remained as a flat-packed behemoth, taking up most of the garage. There just wasnt a free weekend when it wasnt raining, snowing or blowing a gale. The summerhouse is now half-built; it has been in this state for weeks. We are waiting for another weekend without a storm. It doesnt have a roof yet, and doors and windows are a distant dream. I know Im lucky to be somebody who has a garden where she will one day have an idyllic retreat, but in the meantime, its just business as usual. I will keep on writing, finding the spaces between everything else, while trying to maintain the Sissinghurst tower in my mind, the place that a writer must be able to reach if she is ever to get anything done.
BA lone word on a line at the end of a paragraph is called an orphan. Rebecca Smiths first three novels, The Bluebird Caf, Happy Birthday and All That, and A Bit of Earth are published by Bloomsbury. During 2009 and 2010 she was the writer-in-residence at Jane Austens House Museum in Chawton, Hampshire. Her first work of nonfiction, Jane Austens Guide to Modern Lifes Dilemmas, is published by Ivy Press in the UK and Tarcher Penguin in North America. She teaches creative writing at the University of Southampton.
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t h e w r i t e rs b o ok sh e l f
THE WRITERS BOOKSHELF
N E W OX F OR D RHYMING DIC T IONA R Y Publisher: Oxford University Press The New Oxford Rhyming Dictionary certainly lives up to its reputation as a member of the Oxford reference book family. The introduction provides a solid foundation for those new to rhyme and an invaluable source of encouragement for those better versed in poetry. It is relevant not just for writers/poets but also for singers, journalists, advertisers, and politicians, even those using rhyme to aid memory prior to an exam. The layout is innovative and grouped depending on sound rather than in the traditional alphabetical format of other dictionaries. For those unfamiliar with this method the layout may be confusing, however, I have found this set up has encouraged me to browse more and discover alternative rhymes I may not have come across otherwise. With the 45,000+ most up-to-date English words listed in the easy to follow index, words such as iPod, Google, and Twitter in addition to names, countries and nationalities and tips for alternative methods of rhyme, the variety of options available to the reader is countless. Having written a childrens book based on rhyme, I truly wish I had this when I started writing. The New Oxford Rhyming Dictionary is absolutely invaluable and a must for every bookshelf. Lydia Roshanzamir, London
HOW T O W R I T E A ROM A N C E N OV E L : A BEGINNERS G U I DE T O G E T T I N G IT WRITTEN AND GETTING IT PUBLISHED by Susan Palmquist Publisher: Compass This is a beginners guide to writing and publishing a romantic novel and at only 85 pages is very accessible. Its written in an informal, chatty style and the twelve chapters are all broken down into very short segments, with Things to Try lists and summaries of the main points. It covers the expected topics such as characterisation, dialogue, point of view and sexual tension but without going into a great deal of detail. I was disappointed there was hardly anything about plotting or structure and while the author stresses how important it is to have internal conict she doesnt really advise on how to achieve it. The book is good on providing a breakdown of the main romantic subgenres, markets and how to submit a manuscript. Unfortunately the overall impression I got was that the book had been written and published in a hurry to capture the Fifty Shades of Grey wannabe market. There are lots of typos and lengthy excerpts from the authors own novels, which felt like padding. This might be a useful starting point for someone considering putting pen to paper for the rst time but for me I want more substance and advice on the actual writing and editing processes than are offered here. Rebecca Kershaw, N. Lincs HOW T O B E A WRITER : SECRETS F ROM T H E I N S I DE by Stewart Ferris Publisher: Summersdale If youve ever suspected that you might have a book in you, if only you knew where to start and more importantly how to nish, this book is for you. Not for the faint-hearted, it doesnt pull any punches when it comes to giving wouldbe writers a reality check, but there is plenty of humour to soften the blow. An experienced writer and editor, Stewart Ferris willingly shares a wealth of experience and the mistakes he made
OX F OR D DIC T IONA R Y OF REFERENCE & A L LU S ION by Andrew Delahunty & Sheila Dignen Publisher: Oxford University Press I'm a huge fan of the Oxford range of reference books and nd them extremely helpful with all aspects of my writing. Yet this one had somehow escaped me, so I was delighted to get the chance to look at this one. Its a gem. The main body of the book consists of alphabetized entries covering all manner of people, places, books, characters, events and sayings. Each entry gives an explanation of the heading, which is fascinating in itself, but the really useful part is the example of how it might be used as a reference. So not only does the book provide sources for nearly 2,000 entries, but it also shows how they might be used in practice. For example, we can look up a phrase like the writing on the wall, meaning an omen of disaster, and learn its origins in the biblical book of Daniel, and see it used in context in a modern business magazine. We all know the movie Jurassic Park but I wouldnt perhaps have thought of using it as a reference to a situation where sensible precautions are sidelined and chaos prevails. The book also contains a thematic index at the end, so that if you know what your theme is, beauty, say, or mystery, you can nd directions to entries that will provide a reference for that. This is such a helpful book for writers, allowing them to bring freshness and originality to their work by helping them avoid the same old expressions and clichs. Be warned, though. Once you start digging through this, your attention will be sidetracked and youll end up ipping back and forth in search of new nuggets of information rather than actually writing. Willow Thomas, Lymington
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If youve ever suspected that you might have a book in you, if only you knew where to start and more importantly how to nish, this book is for you. Not for the faint-hearted, it doesnt pull any punches
t h e w r i t e rs b o ok s h e l f
himself in order to illustrate the most effective means of preparing your work for submission and coming to terms with the often disheartening and lonely actuality of a writers life. Its like having ready access to your own guru and its the personal touch that sets it apart from more prescriptive alternatives in the crowded self-help market. Its not the equivalent of a creative writing course and its probably not the only writing manual you would ever need but it serves its purpose well as a highly practical guide to the nuts and bolts of pulling a writing project together to give it the best possible chance of success. A reasonably slim volume with short chapters and lots of sub headings its easy to dip in and out of, and I was particularly impressed with the breakdown of the different types of editing stages, which I will certainly be referring to again. A beginner could do a lot worse than this for a concise and pragmatic introduction to the bewildering task of making your writing publishable. Melanie Mitchell, St Albans
W R I T E G R E AT DI A L O G U E by Irving Weinman Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton This book, one of the Teach Yourself Creative Writing series, is aimed at writers of all levels. It includes chapters on building character using dialogue, direct and indirect speech and interrupted/ multiple speech. Each chapter follows a similar format: fairly short and snappy sections answering a particular question (for example What does dialogue do?), Key idea boxes summarising each topic, Try it now writing exercises, and case studies showing how particular writing techniques have been put into practice. The subject of this book appealed to me. Writing convincing speech is always a challenge; its inevitably articial, but still has to come across as natural. I nd myself spending a lot of time thinking about how to achieve the right balance between dialogue and narrative.
For me, the books earlier chapters (Character in dialogue and Narrative in dialogue) were the most helpful. These include some thought-provoking advice, for instance on how a small variation in speech can distinguish between character voices. I found the later chapters of less interest, particularly the section on journals, letters and diaries. In addition, some of the extracts used as case studies are rather too lengthy and are not always clearly distinguished from the related commentary, thus becoming rather confusing at times. The Try it now exercises are perhaps most suited to those writers seeking a structured set of exercises to work through on a regular basis, rather than those looking for a more informal approach. (I have to admit to skipping the exercise that involved editing an extract from Washington Square into contemporary language!) This book would certainly stimulate discussion within a writing group however, and some the exercises could easily be translated into group activities or homework. J.D. Oswald, Winchester
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Detailed instruction and analysis covering writing for the widest marketplace in creative writing.
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Telling Lifes Tales A Guide to Writing Life Stories for Print and Publication
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The End of Oulipo? Members, fans and critics of this literary experiment in pattern and the written word wonder where next?
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Failure, A Writers Life

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Failure is a catalogue of literary monstrosities, a philosophy for the unreadable, and a map for new literary worlds.
9781780997049 14.99 296pp 2013
Available from all good high street and online bookshops
thenewwriter.com
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shor t s t or y
SHORT STORY
BY richard hulse
how your paintings, Kelso had suggested. Some of them are fine. The end of term art exhibition. Myra faced it without hope. Failure was gathering itself in the near future; already she could see its moronic smile. Myra stood in the large hall the college had designated as exhibition space. Her own allocation was a corner of blank walls and a bare floor. Shed brought several canvases and propped them up against a nearby table, but for a second she contemplated leaving the space as it was. The theme is emptiness, she would say. Or impotence. The tutors might even admire her effrontery. Theyre pretty good, your paintings, Kelso had said. Put them up. Easy for him to advise. His own exercises in neo-Rackham pen and inks were beautiful creations; minutely detailed, works of love. It must have taken you hours, Myra had said when shed first seen them in the autumn. Hed smiled. Gazing about the hall, Myra saw not only Kelsos work, but the fruits of all the other students creativity: Jenny, not long out of sixth form, but gifted beyond her years; everyone knew her portraits of the
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poor and dispossessed would be a certain passport to University, here in Manchester or further afield. Then there was William, the retired bus conductor, and his smoky swirling pastels. It was enough to break ones heart. True, over the last year, shed gained competence in drawing, knew how to block out an image, draw a likeness. But this dogged perseverance served only to underline a fundamental truth; she was talentless. All she could hope for was to put up some of her best and the word felt heavy with irony, were there such divisions as best and worst when it came to mediocrity? some, then, of her less inept watercolours, and hope to scrape through the assessments. Myra grimaced. Shed done well to be accepted on the course. An impact greater than that was too much to hope for. Shed overheard Jenny discussing her work with another student, and from the girls pretty lips had fallen the dread words; Sunday afternoon painter. But it was all of a oneness. Her flat was less a living space, more a mausoleum for the Arts: clumsy sculptures; aborted novels; poems tucked away in drawers, with rhyme schemes that even Myra
s hor t s t or y
found trite. Her interest in photography had lasted longer, but without providing satisfaction. Why shed believed studying fine arts at the college would have been any different was a far greater mystery, a more rewarding area for conjecture, than anything shed created in the last two terms.
Myra made her way home through the gloom of a Manchester evening. The hand of winter was still obstinately gripping the city. She passed a television shop, its screens showing the latest pop bands and situation comedies: they blurred together as she walked; ferrety landlords in moth-eaten cardigans and long-haired singers in platform shoes. A lorry sailed past, all yellowish light and hissing tyres. She kept going. By the time she reached Salford, the clouds above its grimy streets were dark, and there was a faint touch of rain in the air. Her head was down. On the pavement before her she noticed a spool of sound recording tape, with several feet of it unraveled, a wispy brown thread fluttering in the breeze. Preoccupied, she went on past it. Such banal sights were common; together with the woolen glove on a park railing or a discarded shoe in the gutter, they were a curious side-product of modern urban bric-a-brac. Why people felt a need to deposit them on the high street rather than in dustbins was another matter. She kept going, and then, on an impulse, stopped. She went back a few paces, and looked down at the tape with greater interest. The spool wasnt broken, and the tape, though loose, was intact.
Myra sat at the kitchen table with nail scissors, glue and sellotape. The rain that had threatened an hour ago was drumming at the window. But she liked rain, at least when safely indoors; its rhythm was soothing. She sipped from a mug of tea, and as she sat back, caught her reflection in the wall mirror. Perhaps it was an odd nuance of loneliness to be startled by yourself, although solitude was preferable to some of the men shed found company with; Graham, whose gesture of farewell had been the practical one of taking her gas and electricity savings. Repairing the tape was trickier than shed first expected. It had been trodden on, and inches of it were irreparably creased and crushed. She cut these pieces out, joining the ends together with dabs of glue. Myra went to the cabinet, and dug out her Philips reel to reel recorder. It had been an amusing novelty when shed bought it a couple of years ago, and she supposed everyone who owned a tape recorder had once felt the same. She inserted the spool and threaded the beginning of the tape through. All of this was a whimsical notion, anyway. What did she expect to discover, the electronic equivalent of
a message in a bottle? It would be music recorded from the radio, or some inconsequential conversation. An hour of blank emptiness was even more likely, leaving her sleepy-eyed with boredom long before its end. Still, this task filled her evening. And, arguably, there was a kind of creativity to it, an attempt to find significance in the commonplace. She pushed the play button. Myra watched the movement of the tape; it hissed in the quiet room. That was the thing about night. It placed a layer of silence upon all things. A mans voice; This is track number four. Nothing further for several seconds. Myra waited. Screaming. She sat, stunned. A childs voice? The screams began to cohere into words. Other voices became interspersed. Three people: a man, a woman and a child. It was the child a girl who was screaming. Through the whimpers and sobs, it wasnt evident precisely what was happening, but the cries were harrowing. At one point, the womans voice threatened to hit the girl if she didnt keep quiet. The child was pleading, saying she wanted to go home. The mans voice was monotonously obsessive, repeating the same demands for compliance. The woman clearly supported his demands. The tape, the voices and cries, went on. It ended, grotesquely, with the abrupt intrusion of music, a Christmas carol, The Little Drummer Boy. Then, nothing. There was no clue to indicate how the story had finished. Myra became aware of the hard wooden back of the chair against her shoulder blades, the tick of the rain outside. The world was as it had always been. The recorder gleamed in the electric light. She breathed deeply. When she raised her hand to her forehead, the palm felt damp. She tried to make sense of her impressions. It had lasted about ten minutes. Torment, pain and fear had been at the forefront. Alone in the flat, she had just listened to what was clearly the most dreadful of assaults.
Kelso brought two cups of coffee from the student cafeteria. Myra stirred hers, more for forms sake than for any practical purpose; she took neither milk nor sugar. Always a solidly-built girl, since turning thirty shed become more concerned about the spread of her hips. She tapped her cigarette into the ashtray; nicotine was worse for the health or so the new medical warnings were increasingly claiming but it didnt put fat on. Disturbing, undoubtedly, said Kelso, thoughtfully. Can you place the accents? Hed listened to the tape that morning, in one of the colleges unoccupied offices. Daylight had done nothing to diminish its force. Kelso was from London, where he had an agent who promoted his paintings. He and Myra were dissimilar; he brought a whiff of metropolitan sophistication that was alien to her. But, perhaps by dint of contrast, he was one of the
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few people on the course shed developed any rapport with. He could be aloof, but she respected his opinion. Myra had identified the accents. The woman and the little girl were from the local area; the flat vowels and the turns of phrase were unmistakable: Can I tell you summat?; Dont dally. The mans voice, however, was not. I cant place him, said Myra. Kelso frowned. British Isles, but not English. Scottish, maybe? It sounds like hes trying to minimise it, though. As if hes trying to present himself as more southern, or perhaps just more educated, than he is. Myra nodded. Her knowledge of Scotland was scanty and distanced; popular images of bagpipes, kilts, lake monsters. Shed never even visited the country. The only personal contact shed had was years ago; when shed been a typist shed had a crush on a dark-haired young man from Glasgow who worked in the same office. He was quiet and goodlooking. But hed been too shy to ask her out. Nothing had come of it. So, said Kelso, disturbing, but also unproven. Unproven in what sense? asked Myra, startled. It was a word she hadnt expected him to use. I mean, we can say what they represent the voices but not what they are. Pembroke 'New Writer' Advert:Pembroke She stared. I think its pretty bloody obvious.CAM Ad
Is it? Kelso put one hand up, a tiny gesture, appealing for reason, for analysis. Something clearly happened, yes, but at the moment you have no way of knowing what that something is. All you know is what it sounds like. Kelso had been a lecturer in history; a reluctance to run to judgement was ingrained in him. But this was carrying intellectual dispassion to ridiculous extremes. Come on, Martin, she said. Thats far too guarded. Look, Im just starting with basics. What youve found suggests something terrible has taken place, but He trailed off. But your point is? That you cant be sure its real. She was offended. Did he think shed invented this herself? I cant imagine how you can seriously think its not real. He saw her defensiveness. She didnt care. Disguising anger had never been encouraged in her family. When she was twelve, growing up in Gortons mean terraces, her father had ordered her to beat up anyone who bullied her or hed leather her himself. Shed learnt to do just that. It was a world shed tried to move on from, but the inheritance stuck. Im saying, Myra, consider. It might be a grisly 4/3/13 joke. 16:32 Page 1 have stumbled on a practical Or you might
PEMBROKE COLLEGE University of Cambridge

Summer programmes for a wider audience
The summer of 2013 will see two exciting additions to Pembroke Colleges already impressive portfolio of summer programmes. Devised in collaboration with leading practitioners, they are designed to give those with a keen interest and some background an experience of the best that the Colleges and the University can offer: International Security and Intelligence in the 21st Century is chaired by Sir Richard Dearlove, Master of Pembroke and former Head of the Secret Intelligence Service, and Professor Emeritus Christopher Andrew, and brings together an unusual and impressive assembly of speakers. The Art of Writing is a collaboration with the National Academy of Writing aimed at writers and aspiring writers and featuring leading literary figures such as Sir Michael Holroyd and Deborah Moggach. More about these three-week programmes can be found at: www.pem.cam.ac.uk/summer2013/
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s hor t s t or y
rehearsal by some actors, some extreme theatrical piece that was never performed. The content could be entirely fictitious. Mightnt that explain it? How do you know it wasnt recorded off television from Play for Today? Myra thought about it. These were possibilities, some more easily checked than others. But she didnt believe they were true. She wasnt even sure she wanted such a prosaic explanation. That was part of the tapes chilling power. The voices hung in space, isolated from either origins or resolution.
It was three days since shed found the recording. If mundane reality was her concern, it had proved remarkably unsuccessful in asserting itself. Out of a mixture of responsibility and caution, shes taken the tape to the local police station in Salford, and played it to a sergeant. He made notes, but, to her relief, he let her keep the recording. A day or two later, the telephone in the hall rang, just before she headed off to the arts centre. It was the same sergeant. Questions had been asked, possibilities eliminated. There were no unsolved cases of missing children. The officers voice, humming in her ear, was reassuring. Naturally theyd continue to check, but they were inclined to think the recording wasnt what it seemed. It was a hoax, perhaps. If you think about it, miss, he added, why would anyone leave a clue like that in the middle of the street? Just waiting for someone to pick up? Myra had no expertise in the subject. But she suspected real life criminals were not the resourceful figures of made for television movies. They were likely to be as confused and mistake-prone as all other branches of suffering humanity. She mentioned this to the officer. Well, yes, miss. Sometimes, in panic, they might drop a weapon, a knife or a gun. But this is different. The comment was true as far as it went. The sergeants voice took on a winding-down-ofconversation tone. Dont worry about it. If it was real, he would have to be a pretty incompetent murderer. Murderers, said Myra. There were two adult voices. Nonetheless, she was relieved for reasons that went beyond the obvious. Shed been anxious they might confiscate the tape, and that would have disrupted an idea that had formed.
Myra swept away her paintings from the corner of the gallery. She stacked them in a side room and left them amid the dust and clutter without a second thought. In the corner space, she constructed a bed, with blankets and sheets disheveled and unmade. By its side she placed a small table with a stopped clock (symbolic, she thought; time, death). She
included a teddy bear, one from her own childhood, with much of its fur worn away from the passion of her infant embraces; this, she put on the pillow. She placed a single white sock, a childs, on the floor. In a surreal touch, she hung a wooden frame from the ceiling, surrounded by black curtains. The frame was intended to represent a window. Why the window? asked Kelso, whod stopped by to watch the display coalesce. It represents Escape, said Myra, but because its hanging in mid-air, the concept is illusory. Interesting. The installation design was a combination of guesswork and logic. Shed listened to the tape a dozen times, trying to analyse it closely. It was clear from the quality of the sound that it had been recorded inside a house, in a relatively small room; there was no sense of spaciousness or echoes. Myra also instinctively felt the location was a bedroom. For all their depravity or, perhaps, because of it there was an intimacy about the adult voices that spoke of seclusion, of secret shadowy things done away from the thoroughfares of living rooms and kitchens. Blood? suggested Jenny. Shed strolled over and was leaning against one of the wooden partitions that separated the displays, her paintbrush dangling. She looked openly intrigued. Her dark hair was tied back, and there were paint flecks on her forehead, but she still looked like a Pre-Raphaelite vision. Myra knew Jenny hadnt heard the tape yet, but, like everyone else on the course, shed heard of it. Ripples of debate were forming within the department. The tutors were divided. Landesman had shaken his head and argued that a student couldnt start from scratch with only a few days to go; development should be evaluated over the year. But Ruth Naylor said, even if it was the eleventh hour, initiative and boldness must be encouraged. Blood? asked Myra. Why not? said Jenny. Put a few drops of red paint on the sheets or the floor. That would be over the top, said Kelso. I dont think blood is a good idea, Jen. That would make the meaning unequivocal. Oh, come on, is equivocation such a big deal? A Renaissance painter wouldnt have had a clue what that means. Its such a Twentieth Century concept. In case you hadnt noticed thats exactly the era were in. And high time we moved on. In which direction? Forwards or backwards? Myra allowed their aesthetic bickering to continue. She worked, getting a splinter in one thumb and damp patches of sweat in the small of her back. Lecturers and students could argue it back and forth. For perhaps the first time in her life, she felt an originality and purpose. And be damned to what anyone else said. In the late afternoon, she took time out to munch a ham sandwich, and study the work. Shed brought her camera in, complete with a new roll of film. Most
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of her fellow students had departed to home or pub. She snapped a series of shots of her installation from different angles. The tutors encouraged them to record their progress, visually and in journals. And after all, when the exhibition was over, it would be dismantled and photographs would be all shed have. Lastly, as seemed appropriate, Myra put the recorder on the small wooden table beside the bed.
The last two days trickled by. It was strange, the evening before the viewing. She sat in the flickering light from the television, watching late programmes, until finally the National Anthem played. But when its dirge-like tones faded, still, she sat and gazed at the far wall. It was as though she was afraid to go to bed. No, it wasnt that, she told herself. It was tomorrow. Dread was like a stone, weighting down her belly. Ridicule and derision; a common working class girl with ideas above her station; crass not class; pretentious nonsense. She woke on the settee, neck and shoulder aching from the awkward angle. For a moment she was utterly disorientated. Then the sound of familiarity, the clink of bottles, as the milkman placed them on the step outside.
was crouching. She wore a short coat, and fashionable outdoor boots. But her face couldnt be properly seen; she was looking down towards the ground, and she wore a headscarf. Myra studied the picture. Wherever this was, it had been taken in winter; that was beyond dispute. Nothing in the womans stance suggested it, but Myra could feel the coldness of the land, and the unseen wind soughing across it.
The chemist was apologetic but reserved. There was no possibility of a mix-up. Hed had no other films to develop that day. The blank pictures? People often didnt use cameras properly; light crept in and ruined the exposure; could she be sure she hadnt done that? As for the single enigmatic shot that survived, he could offer no explanation. It had developed exactly like that, in black and white, therefore, somehow, it must have been shot that way. But these cant be mine. I was in an art school for Gods sake. Inside a building. The chemist shook his head. Maybe you took a snap a while ago and forgot about it. Or maybe someone borrowed the camera without you knowing. She walked out before she swore at him, the bell tinkling on the door overhead.
Spring looked like it would make an effort today. Oxford Road was brighter. A couple of sparrows squabbled over a crust, but there seemed more exuberance than need in their dispute. The pathetic fallacy, she told herself, did that apply to animals? People had shed their coats, and were strolling down the street, enjoying the sunshine. It helped to dispel some of her insecurities. She dropped in at the chemist in St Peters Square, paid and thanked him, and was a hundred yards down the street, before she opened the paper folder to check the photographs of the display. She stopped, dimly conscious of an elderly lady carrying a bag of shopping. A boy on a bicycle whirred past. Myra gazed at the photographs, bewildered. The film hadnt developed. Each print was the same; a succession of grey pictures. Irritated, she wondered if shed made a mistake, overexposed it by accident. She leafed through them. All spoiled, all wasted. Then she came to the final picture. Her first instinct was to redirect her annoyance towards the chemist. The man had given her someone elses pictures. It was impossible she could have taken this. It had nothing to do with the exhibition. She had no idea where it had been taken or what it was. It wasnt even in colour. She was looking at a black and white snapshot of bleak moorland. It was daylight; the land filled by an empty illumination from the absent sky. Her attention was caught by the small figure of a woman who occupied the centre of the picture. The woman
52
That evening, the exhibition hall was filled with warmth and noise. People far more of them than shed expected stood or walked about as couples or in small groups. Shed had no one to invite; these were all friends and family of the other students. There was a long table by the far wall, draped in a white cloth. A waiter had carefully placed a pyramid of glasses upon it. By the side were bottles of white and red wine. Everywhere, women in dresses, men in jackets and ties. Conversation drifting in and out as she walked through the crowd. People laughed, and beamed at one another. Myra accepted a flute of champagne. When she was a teenager shed drank a lot, but she supposed most youngsters did. Now a drink was a treat. Jenny came over, in garrulous mood. Shed invited her parents. They loved her work, but then that was what parents were for werent they? Myra smiled and agreed. But who brought the little girl? asked Jenny suddenly. Little girl? I saw her a minute ago. Wandering about. Jenny hesitated. Must be one of the organisers kids. Not really appropriate, Id say, for her to be unsupervised. Yknow, chocolately fingers on the paintings. She looked across the room. A tutor, Ruth Naylor, tapped a spoon against her wine glass. The note was silvery. Everyone looked expectant. Ruth introduced Myra to the guests, explained briefly something of
s hor t s t or y
her display, commented on its unusualness. Myra felt everyones eyes upon her. The tutor finished her short speech. Myras stomach fluttered. No one moved. It was as she imagined being on stage in a theatre would be. She fumbled with her sleeve to disguise her awkwardness, and went to the table by the bed. On a sudden decision, she put the photograph of moorland on the pillow. She pressed the recorders play button. The voices rent through the bright hall. Myra waited, unsure. The tape ended. There was a silence of some seconds. People began to stir. Absolutely remarkable. Extraordinary. Did you make it yourself, my dear? People were crowding around, albeit in decorous fashion. They were all looking; considering her design layout, the recorder, Myra herself. I didnt make it. I discovered it. She paused, uncertain what to add, and then she smiled at the expectant semi-circle. It makes me sound like Columbus finding the New World, doesnt it? There was a wash of laughter. Ive got to admit it; your display is distinctive. This was Kelso; hed appeared beside her, smart in a double-breasted suit. Very original and striking. Thank you. Have you considered a London showing? Myra only just suppressed an incredulous laugh. I actually hadnt. Kelso was talking to her, polite tones, calm and agreeable. He offered to write down the name of his agent. Perhaps if Myra could get to Kensington in the next few weeks, there might be the possibility of organising something for the summer? She nodded, a little light-headed. The room felt warm; was it less than an hour ago shed arrived? Conversations came together and separated into laughter. Kelso went over to get another drink, promising hed be back in a minute. Myra looked at the people. For an instant it was strange, she could see their mouths moving, their bodies in motion, but it was as though shed gone deaf. Their actions were played out in utter silence. Then the feeling was over and the voices crashed and broke. Myra turned, and paused, looking down. Oh, hello. A small figure had drifted out of the crowd. This must be the child Jenny had mentioned earlier. She was about ten or eleven, with brown hair cut short in a bob. She evidently felt no need to answer the greeting. Myra tried again. Are you here with your parents? The girl gazed at her blankly. Myra had no children of her own, although shed occasionally baby-sat for her sisters offspring. She wasnt sure how to talk to kids. I mean, are your parents in this room? The girl shook her head in that exaggerated way children possess, hair swinging slightly. Myra looked at her more closely. She had a delicate face, the phrase
china doll springing readily to mind. She wore a pink cardigan and a plaid skirt. She was tidy, but not as though shed been specially dressed for an occasion. You came in here on your own? Yes, said the girl, simply. She needed to have a word with Clive on the door. He had no business letting just anyone in, particularly an unescorted child. Im afraid you cant stay here, love, said Myra. Youre in the wrong place. The college was a sizeable building. No doubt this girls mother was in some out-of-the-way classroom, arranging flowers or studying elementary geography. Shed brought her daughter along, and the bored girl had slipped away in search of distraction. But the childs next words dispelled that notion. Mamas home, waiting for me. Odd. But it was none of her affair. Then best you get yourself off then. The girl appeared to give the matter some thought. Her expression was solemn. Then she looked up. Is everything different here? I beg your pardon? Myra? It was one of the tutors, Landesman, calling decorously from across the room. Myra, theres someone would like to speak to you. A gentleman from the Manchester Evening News. A few words? Be right with you. She turned back to the girl. Cant I stay? asked the girl. Her face was all dark eyes. Well, no, you cant. Its cold out there, said the girl, turning her head towards the window. Evening had fallen. The colour was draining from the sky; like a painting turning into a charcoal sketch, thought Myra, then wondered briefly if all artists saw everything in aesthetic terms. Im sorry, but you shouldnt be here. Now off you trot. Myra? Were ready. She turned, and walked over to where they waited. A young reporter, fair hair flopping over his forehead, took her to one side. Would you mind if I used that Columbus quote? That was good, very sharp. So, tell me, who would you say your favourite artists are? Myra smiled. Im not sure I have any. The reporter laughed. Looks like Ill have to make up some! Would you object? Not at all. She was amused. He was a good looking young man with his blond fresh- faced looks. Do newspapermen often do that? He lowered his voice conspiratorially. Yes, but we dont always admit to it. Now, how long have you been working on this? For all the excitement of the reception, she couldnt help but wonder where the core of the interest lay. Were people intrigued by what use shed made of the voices, or was it the mystery itself? A sort of Mary Celeste of the local art scene? If so, did it matter?
thenewwriter.com 53
shor t s t or y
The reporter was scribbling in his notepad. Kelso was waiting in the background, holding two glasses, good-naturedly waiting for her to fi nish. The reporters voice receded. Myra looked out of the nearest window. A breeze in the evening air was carrying a scrap of paper, twisting and scampering along the ground. Myra could see the interior of the room reflected in the window pane, the movements of the guests behind her. But adjusting her gaze, she also saw the little girl on the road that wound away from the college. A solitary figure, walking. And there was a car moving into view. A white car, an estate, maybe a Morris. It slowed down beside her. It halted. The girl stopped and went closer to the passenger window. The car and the girl; the orange glints of an overhead street lamp.
The left side door opened. The little girl was obviously talking to someone in the passenger seat, but Myra couldnt see who. Very likely it was her mother come to pick her up. Then Myra caught the merest glimpse. A woman, for just a second or two, as she reached across to open the passenger door. The girl got in beside her. The door closed, and the car pulled away. Myra turned back to the journalist. You must be delighted? he asked. By your success? A rhetorical question, but she turned it over thoughtfully. As well to be cautious in her expectations, but that didnt mean she shouldnt enjoy this while it lasted. The fears of the night before now seemed distant and unreal. He was hanging on her answer. She smiled, and he lit her cigarette, while about her glasses clinked, and people murmured, their voices quiet and soothing.
Richard Hulse currently lives in a rambling apartment in northern England. On this side of the Atlantic his short ction has appeared in Scribble and Dark Tales, and in the USA his stories have been published by the literary webzines Smokelong, 3AM Magazine and Monkeybicycle. His graphic novel adaptation of Wuthering Heights is due to be published by Campre in 2013.
Arty Breaks
Tel: 013 23 727 480 Mobile: 07944 42 Email: d ebra@ar 0 214 tybreaks .co.uk
Take tim e out t o join A Breaks f rty or a we e k end writ retreat ing in Eastb ourne
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w r i t e r s & a r t i s t s y e a r b o ok 20 1 3
I think I need an agent
Considered by many to be the Writers Bible
I THINK I NEED AN AGENT M A RK LE FA N U E XPL A I N S W H E N I T I S A P P R O P R I AT E F O R A N A U T H O R T O H AV E A N A G E N T.
f you write ction, having an agent is becoming almost essential. Publishers are deluged with uncommissioned proposals and rely on agents whose taste they respect to lter the best from the rest. That is why many of the major publishers tell authors they will only accept submissions from agents. But even then, there are very many more novels seeking publishers (and agents) than will ever be accepted or even looked at. This leaves many novelists however good their work in a depressingly difcult situation. Having a good website, self-publishing and other self-promotional activities are ways of trying to stand out from the crowd.
thenewwriter.com 55
w r i t e r s & a r t i s t s y e a r b o ok 20 1 3
I think I need an agent
For narrative non-ction, likely to be stocked by the main booksellers, an agent may well help you to secure improved terms, but is probably not essential. A publisher can tell much about a non-ction work from a quick glance at a proposal, which is not the case with works of ction. Few agents are interested in representing authors of scholarly, professional, reference or highly illustrated works, and generally they dont have the specialist knowledge to do so to great effect. Agents very rarely take on poetry, memoirs or short stories; and they are particularly hesitant about taking on authors writing in their retirement when the chances of building up a lasting full-time career are reduced. A good agent will be likely to secure better terms (notably the advance) than you can achieve on your own and thereby more than offset their commission. Successful authors say their agent saves them an enormous amount of time looking after the business side of their work. However, an indifferent agent may be of little value; likewise one without good knowledge of rights management and contracts. Be wary of agencies seeking up-front payments, for example joining, reading or editing fees, as publishers will pay little attention to recommendations from such an agency, suspecting that its main reason for representing a work is the up-front payment rather than the quality of the material itself. Details of approximately 150 UK agencies are listed in this Yearbook. Very few literary agents take on writers other than of ction and narrative non-ction. Within these limitations, agencies represent a variety of authors. Some specialise in childrens writers and illustrators; others in lm, television and talent (e.g. celebrity writers). Membership of the Association of Authors Agents is indicative of the literary agencys expertise and professionalism; likewise membership of the Personal Managers Association
for screenwriters and dramatists agents. When asked how they came by their agent, many authors suggest that it was as much a matter of luck as anything else. The Society of Authors can give its members condential advice about particular agencies and look over agency agreements they are offered. If an agency shows interest, arrange a meeting to see if you are compatible and to discuss terms before making up your mind. If you are in the fortunate position of having more than one agent seeking to represent you, or are being courted by an agent even though you are currently happy without one, get the agent to convince you that what they can bring to the party justies their commission. They should sell themselves to you after all, the main skill you want from them is the ability to sell. Most agencies give details on their websites as to how they like to be approached. The harsh reality is that many agents say they will not consider unsolicited typescripts. You will probably need to send just a synopsis and sample chapter (dont telephone) to the agency concerned with a covering letter, retaining a copy of both. Enclose stamps for return postage. Be aware that it can be a matter of weeks before you receive a response to your proposal as agents spend most of their time representing their existing clients. It may be reassuring to know that many members of the Society of Authors do not have agents; and (whether or not you have an agent) the Society can help by scrutinising members publishing and media contracts without extra charge and suggesting realistic improvements. Whatever impression publishers may like to give that their contracts, hallowed by years of experience and revered for their fairness, should simply be signed with gratitude, negotiation is invariably in order. Firm but reasonable bargaining, informed by a knowledge of what is achievable, undoubtedly pays off. Mark Le Fanu was formerly General Secretary of the Society of Authors
This extract is used with kind permission from Writers and Artists Yearbook 2013 Please see the article by agent Maggie Phillips on page 42. You can purchase your own Writers Bible see page 62.
w r i t e r s grou p t h e r a p y
Simon Whaley
writers group ther apy
Oliver Fletcher, from Inverness, raises an interesting question. Theres a writers circle Id like to join, but when I made enquiries they advised me there was an application process, which requires me to send examples of any published work, or a selection of my five best written pieces. If they like what they read theyll invite me to join. This is elitist and unfair! I thought writers groups were supposed to be accessible.
Is elitism fair?
BY simon whaley
any writers groups are open and available for anyone to join. There are some though, who prefer to restrict their membership to those who have reached a certain standard with their writing, or perhaps who write in a specific genre. Restricting membership does have its benefits (assuming you can get in!): I t ensures that members have time to have their work critiqued. A group with 20 members wont have time to read everyones 2000-word short story and offer constructive criticism in a two-hour meeting. Smaller groups can manage their time more efficiently, which gives everyone a chance to give and receive feedback on work read out. I f every member of the group is writing to a similar standard, they arent devoting a lot of time bringing a newer member up to their standard. Yes, a writers group is an opportunity to grow and develop, but if theres a wide range of abilities that can impact on how well each member develops. The newer members may find themselves gaining a lot from other members, but older members may not be getting the feedback they need from newer
members. Having everyone at a similar level means theres an opportunity for everyone to develop. A group that specialises in a particular genre will, over time, build up knowledge and skills in that genre. Being focussed like this can help a writers development. However, having an application process has its drawbacks. It can prevent fresh blood from joining the group, which means existing members may become insular. Writers should expose themselves to different styles of writing, and new members can help with this. Also, limiting membership can create a waiting list of members whove been approved. Some might not feel comfortable about filling a dead members shoes. Ironically, in the time between being approved and being able to join a group, the new member may have developed so much that the new group is no longer suitable! It doesnt matter whether a group is open or closed to new members. Whats important is whether it helps you as a writer. If you think it might help then try joining. But if you find youre not getting anything from the group, it doesnt matter how elitist it is, you have only one course of action: find a better group!
If you have a writers group query that youd like answered, please email Simon at contact@simonwhaley.co.uk or write to him c/o TNW. If requested, queries will not be attributed to specific groups or members, to prevent any unnecessary bloodshed!
thenewwriter.com 57
i w i sh i d w r i t t e n t h a t !
Sense and Sensibility
I wish Id written that!

B Y PA U L F O X
wish Id written Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen and not just because of the extensive royalties! Originally published in 1811 under the pseudonym of A Lady this was the first of her novels to be published. I have enjoyed most of her work especially Pride and Prejudice so why this one? Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite maxims. Marianne represents the sensual life of inflamed passions and opinions. Her more sensible sister Elinor suffers from being too reticent and not exploring fully her own feelings and thoughts much to her own detriment within the book. Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition. A relationship, in my opinion, can only be based on friendly argument and lively discourse but for Elinor her reserved nature hinders her true destiny and risks her own happiness. In my opinion Marianne is a little affected and more than a little irritating but if I were to meet her half-way, or meet someone similar in my life, then I should take from her an openness and clarity of feeling qualities which are largely absent from my own personality. As for the style of writing no detailed descriptions of exteriors are given for what concerns Austen is the interior life of thoughts and feelings and the conflict raging between social restraint and impulsiveness, reason versus passion. In witty dialogue and memorable characters this battle plays out amongst its pages only to end in a delightful synthesis although, perhaps, a modern reader may be forgiven for having doubts over the future success of the relationship between Marianne and Colonel Brandon. For some critics Austens view of the universe is a narrow one but what greater expanse can there be than that covered by what we actually feel and how we interact, often clumsily, with one another. The numerous television and film versions normally fail to capture her satirical voice which is so prevalent in her writing and which makes her literature so enjoyable. The cinematic work is easy to dismiss as costume drama but shes so much better than that. Who wouldnt wish to write so eloquently about the vagaries of human nature? Response to Readers Challenge in TNW113
See page 7 for the next Readers Challenge

m e e t t h e p u bl i s h e r
Head of Zeus
MEET THE PUBLISHER
In the world of publishing Anthony Cheetham is something of a legend for the number of publishing houses and imprints he has founded or been closely involved in. Until recently the list read Abacus, Century, Macdonald Futura, Orion, Quercus and Corvus. Head of Zeus is his latest start up and his enthusiasm and that of his team shines undimmed.
e are Head of Zeus, a brand new publishing house dedicated to new authors and great storytelling. On 3 January 2012, from a tiny attic on Monmouth Street, the founders Anthony, Nic and Laura , opened Head of Zeus for business.
forge new connections with our authors and with our audience and with that in mind, it could not be a more exciting time to launch a brand new publishing house. Nic Cheetham, Deputy MD and Digital Publisher
We love the printed book the heft of a hardback, the feel of good paper, oor-to-ceiling bookshelves and will never abandon them but the ebook offers something else. Great stories don't date, as long as there are people to read them, they remain eternally new. A good story transcends the words with which it is written, and so how unkind to bind it such physical mundanities as book shop shelf space and month-long sale cycles. Long after the hardback and paperback have disappeared, the E, on the limitless shelves of cyberspace, endures. Word of mouth has always been a key ingredient in making a bestseller, but it has never been as quick. Now a good book can catch on overnight, without being stacked high in supermarkets, before it wins a prestigious literary award, and without being a Richard & Judy pick. So, ebooks offer both instant results and immortality: truly E shall be rst and last! This belief underpins everything we do at HoZ. The E-revolution has allowed us to publish in new ways, and
Sometimes you wake up at night full of dread, wondering why anyone would start a new publishing house in a crowded market with a full blown recession just around the corner. But if a good book arrives on your desk in the morning, you remember why. The list is what counts, and we have much to be grateful for on that score. Anthony Cheetham, CEO
I read for escapism and I love a good cry, so I especially like novels that come with a devastating tragedy and/or a blissfully happy ending. But that's not crucial. For me, a great story can be about anything or set anywhere, so long as it has characters you can identify with, a world you can lose yourself in and a plot that keeps you turning the pages till midnight. The great mistake made by some rst authors is to begin with a Big Idea and then shoehorn in the story... If you want your readers to engage, the story must always come rst. Laura Palmer, Fiction Publisher
thenewwriter.com 59
f ol l o w i ng ob se s sion s
Vanessa Gebbie
Jeremy Banning with Caroline Davies, Tania Hershman, and Zoe King, Chair of the Soc of Women Writers and Journalists.
B Y VA N E S S A G E B B I E
Following your obsessions

(AND HOW IMPORTANT THEY ARE TO YOUR WRITING)
fter the Man Booker celebrations this year I was fascinated to read an interview with Hilary Mantel in which she refers to her relationship with her characters as an obsession. That got me thinking yes, we writers do have our obsessions, and if we follow them (and this is the key) even if we dont know why, good things can happen. We were on holiday a good few summers ago, in Cornwall. 2004, actually. Husband, young teenage son. It was a glorious day, a day made for the beach, the surf, maybe a walk on a breezy headland. But no. Can you drop me at a tin mine? I asked. You guys have a day on the beach, pick me up afterwards. Theres a great mine museum at Geevor. Its not that I dont like beaches, especially Cornish ones, a dollop of Cornish ice-cream after a swim, a good book in the shelter of the sand dunes... perfect. But there was this tin mine to visit, and given the choice, I wanted to go there. On my own. I didnt want husband or son trailing behind moaning, Why are we here? What are you so interested in? It sounded rather lame to say actually, I wanted to nd out what it was like underground in a tin mine. I wanted to explore the museum, discover how the men and women who worked there for centuries had
coped. Or not. I wanted to walk through a section of the old workings that had been made safe for visitors (hard hats, low ceilings, dark...). But most of all, I wanted to walk along the cliff to Levant, the next mine, where there was once a machine that had fascinated me for ages. The man engine. For those who are interested, the man engine was a rudimentary lift mechanism powered by a beam engine up top, a machine for taking miners down into the earth. In 1919 the Levant man engine failed, causing the deaths of over 30 miners and I wanted to nd out as much as I could. Why? Ah, thats the million-dollar question. I had no idea. All I know is, this was 2004, I hadnt been writing for long, and for some reason I just wanted to nd out. Imagine my joy when, travelling in 2005 to a writers retreat in West Cork, Ireland, I discovered that there was a disused copper mine at Allihies, within a few miles. And the Cornish miners had been brought in to install guess what a man engine. The machine was following me about keeping the obsession alive. Sufce it to say I returned to that retreat each year, and still do and each year I drive across and visit the mine, climb to the place called the Mountain Mine, and sit and write high up, overlooking Allihies and the sea. In 2008 ish I wrote a short story about a young
60
f ol l o w i ng ob s e s s ion s
Vanessa Gebbie
soldier who returns from the trenches and is caught up in the Levant man engine disaster. It took a long time to get right one of the most important parts of the story was the actual collapse, descriptions of what happened underground, the machine, the men. In my head I was back in the tunnels at Geevor. I sent it to The Fish Prize under the title The return of the baker Edwin Tregear. It came second. Yippee! But that wasnt the end of the obsession. Watch me as I sit at the Mountain Mine in Allihies one afternoon in January 2009, writing a scene from the novel that would be called The Cowards Tale, but which, at that point, had the working title The Man Engine. Watch Im getting up, taking off my shoes, and walking down the now stony, now grassy path to where my car is parked, in bare feet. What am I doing?! Well, that scene is set on a mountainside, after a mining accident deep underground. A boy has escaped the accident with his life, and is walking barefoot on the mountain he has known and loved all his life. To walk it was to know it. As they say, Write what you know. At the heart of The Cowards Tale is the collapse of that coal mine. It is part of the story, and it is also a metaphor for any incident which a community needs to recover from. OK, here it is not a tin mine my family comes from south Wales, the novel is set there, and there arent any tin mines in south Wales. Nor is there any evidence I can nd that they used man engines. However the movement of the machine informed the structure of the novel, is mirrored in the regular and constant movement between present and past. More importantly, it also worked as a guiding metaphor for the themes of the story men descending into darkness, singly, and returning into the light, changed. As I reluctantly, but appropriately, changed the title before sending in the manuscript. It is a salutary thought that if I had not followed my obsession way back when, perhaps that novel would not have been written at all. Or the Fishprizewinning short story. Talking of which did I mention that the main character is a young soldier? See, another obsession, for a long time now, has been certain actions in the Great War. I suppose it is normal to be interested, especially if one is brought up by a father who fought and was decorated in WWII. But when I had the rst tranche of advance for The Coward s Tale from Bloomsbury, I remember thinking, selshly maybe, No-one else is going to get their mitts on this. Its mine. Now, what do I really, really want to spend it on? Id already visited the Great War battleelds more than once, in various groups. Wed done the usual thing, visiting the better-known places, hearing about the better-known people and their exploits. For some reason, I decided to nd a military historian who would research one little-known battalion and accompany me on a one-to-one trip following in their footsteps. I found a brilliant guy called Jeremy Banning (www.jeremybanning.com) and in early 2011
we went for ve days to the Somme and Ypres. I was able to walk the exact roads along which they had marched to the front, to walk the battleelds where they fought, following their progress. And I was able to stay as long as I liked, drinking it all in. No back on the coach in twenty minutes... And I was able to pay my respects to my boys in the beautiful cemeteries that pepper the landscape. Two years on, and that obsession is informing my writing in the form of poetry, but also another novel. Un nished as yet and only partly set during the Great War, I have no idea where it is going, but it is interesting nding out! That trip was too good to keep to myself, so last October, I put together a small group of interested writers and Jeremy Banning led us back to the Somme. Some unforgettable visits and stories later, and poetry, prose, ction and non-ction owed. Such a great trip that it is becoming an annual event, and we are off again this October. One of the writers on the last trip was poet Caroline Davies. Her own obsession for the last few years has been another war, WWII. Her grandfather served in the Merchant Navy on the Malta convoys. She followed her fascination, researching, and writing. Sufce it to say that the result, Carolines rst poetry collection, Convoy will be published in May, by Cinnamon Press. When I asked for permission to mention her here, she said, What writer isnt obsessed? I remember non-writing friends saying some years back, Why are you writing about a coal mine? Why not write about this, or that, or the other? and now Im getting the same sort of comment Why on earth write about dark subjects like the Great War? Its all been said. Do something else but you see, dear friends, we do what we must. For some reason a small community with a coal mine at its heart wanted to be written about. Now, a little-known group of ordinary blokes in a war that began almost a century ago want to be written. And who am I to stop them? I do think that we should trust our obsessions, in this context. We must trust our own processes. That means trusting that we dont need to know why. The best writing usually comes from somewhere we dont quite understand.
Vanessa Gebbie is author of the novel The Cowards Tale (Bloomsbury) and two collections of short ction: Words from a Glass Bubble and Storm Warning (both Salt Modern Fiction). She teaches widely and is contributing editor of the text book Short Circuit, guide to the art of the short story (Salt). She was awarded the 2012 Troubadour International Poetry prize and her rst poetry pamphlet is forthcoming from Pighog Press. Vanessa is Welsh and lives in East Sussex.
thenewwriter.com 61
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Defending Jacob by William Landay I really enjoyed this cracking thriller makes you think about how much any parent can really know their child, and about the limitations of the legal system. Recommended. Lindsay Healy Cambridgeshire HHHHH Gift of Time by Rory MacLean As with all too many families we have had to live through the death of a relative through cancer I only wish that I had been able to read [this book] when I needed it. It is, as it says on the cover, a wonderful book. Michael Cox Southport HHHH The Ambassadors Daughter by Pam Jenoff this novel is far, far more than a love story. I now will be seeking out other books by Pam Jenoff. Final verdict: Enthralling! Helena May Aldershot HHHHH Whispers Underground by Ben Aaronovitch the third in Aaronovitch's 'Rivers of London' series the best recommendation I can give is that as soon as I'd finished it, I rushed off and bought the first two. Andy Key Winchester HHHHH Maggot Moon by Sally Gardner [this] original work is an outstanding addition to the Young Adult genre, which had me glued to the page for hours reading in a feverish frenzy. Lucinda Fountain Surrey HHHHH (Full reviews published on newbooksmag.com)
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Treats for writers

penguin mugs 8.95 each see page 28
The Invisible Man (MInv) My Man Jeeves (MJee) The Great Gatsby (MGat) Wuthering Heights (MWut) Jane Eyre (MJan) The Big Sleep (MBig) Post & packing for 1 mug FREE p&p for 2 or more mugs p&p 1.95
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skinny notebooks Allium Fernandez (SKali) Agapanthus Breeze (SKaga) Arabian Night (SKara) Berry Bright (SKber) Cupcake Crazy (SKcup) Going Dutch (SKtul) Joli (SKyac) Papillon (SKbut)
instead of a card see page 36

In Memoriam (PMem) 5.95 Ten Poems about Bicycles (PBic) 4.95 Twelve Poems about Birds (PBir) 4.95 Ten Poems about Cats (PCat) 4.95 Ten Poems about Dogs (PDog) 4.95 Ten Poems about Fathers (PFat) 4.95 Ten Poems about Gardens (PGar) 4.95 Ten Poems about London (PLon) 4.95 Ten Poems about Love (PLov) 4.95 Ten Poems about Mothers (PMot) 4.95 Ten Pre-Raphaelite Poems (PPre) 4.95 Ten Poems about Puddings (PPud) 4.95 Thirteen Poems of Revenge (PRev) 4.95 Ten Poems by The Romantics (PRom) 4.95 Ten Poems about Sheep (PShe) 4.95 Ten Poems about Tea (PTea) 4.95
Roses are Red (SKros) Suzys Meadow (SKgra) Sweet Lavender (SKlav) T-4-2! (SKtea)
books about writing see pages 62

Write to be Published 8.99 Moving On: Short Story to Novel 9.99 Writers and Artists Yearbook 2013 18.99 The Writers Treasury of Ideas 12.00
Writing maps 4.00 each see back cover

Writing Art (WMA) The Caf Writing Map (WMCa) The Character Map (WMCh) City of Inspiration (WMCi) Write Around the House (WMH) My Writing Life (WMLi) Writing the Love (WMLo) Writing People (WMP) Writing Things (WMT)
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Large Ruled Notebook (MOl) 13.50 Pocket Ruled Notebook (MOp) 9.99 Ruled Cahier Large (*3) (MO3l) 8.99 Ruled Cahier Pocket (*3) (MO3p) 5.99
total of items in this column total of items from left column (carried forward)
total of items in this column (Carry forward to right column)

64
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GET WRITING
In every issue of The New Writer we aim to have a number of writing opportunities for our readers. These will vary from exercises for you to try alone to articles which we would like to receive from you. There will also be competitions, showcase opportunities, reports and more. See below for an index of the opportunities in this issue
Choc Lit Short story competition page 2 The New Writer Prose & Poetry Prizes page 6 Entries are being accepted now until 30 November. Writers Prompt page 29 Respond to the photograph in whatever way you wish. Writing Together, Writing Alone page 40 Try the exercise for yourself and send us the result. Writers Bookshelf page 47 Send us a book review of your favourite writing guide. Letters page Tell us what you think of the new look magazine. Writers Group Profile tell us about your group, where and how often you meet, how you started and what keeps you going. Dont forget to include a photograph and do send us a writing exercise that we can all try.
The 33rd Winchester Writers Conference, Festival and Bookfair 21-25 June, 2013
The University of Winchester With In-depth Workshops 24-25 June 2013
Enjoy Lord Julian Fellowes Plenary Address, Jasper Ffordes workshop and a feast of 12 Masters Courses, 14 Workshops, 55 Lectures and 500 One-to-One appointments designed to help you harness your creative ideas and develop your professional practice. You will be guided by over 60 leading novelists, poets, playwrights, commissioning editors, literary agents and industry specialists. Weekend accommodation and meals are available on the University of Winchesters campus as part of the Conference package. For more information, visit our website www.writersconference.co.uk or contact Barbara Large MBE, Winchester Writers Conference, University of Winchester, Winchester, Hampshire SO22 4NR Tel: 01962 827238 email: Barbara.Large@winchester.ac.uk
Jasper Fforde Novelist, author of the Thursday Next series.
Lord Julian Fellowes: Author, broadcaster, gardener, actor, novelist, film director, Oscar winner and screenwriter, including Downton Abbey.
Competitions have their own submission guidelines and deadlines; for all other writing opportunities please send us your copy by 4 June 2013. As always we prefer email submissions. Please send to madelaine.smith@thenewwriter.com unless otherwise stated.
Poetry & Writing Courses in France
Chteau Ventenac is delighted to announce new creative writing and poetry courses as well as our popular retreat weeks. Booking now for 2012.
Tutors include: Sean OBrien, Pascale Petit, Patricia Duncker, Tamar Yoseloff, Maurice Riordan, Penny Shuttle, Patrick Gale, Sarah Duncan, Salley Vickers, Tiffany Murray, Jo Bell, Chrysse Morrison and Maria McCann. Inspiring location, wonderful views, great food. We look after you whilst you relax and write.
www.chateauventenac.com/writingcourses julia@chateauventenac.com +44 (0)7773 206344

thenewwriter.com 65
f i v e b o ok s
Katie Fforde
BOOKS
In the rst of this regular feature author Katie Fforde tells us about ve books that helped to form her as a writer, starting with one from childhood and including one writers how-to book.
T O W R I T E R S W I T H L OV E by Mary Wibberly (Out of Print)
K I N G A R T H U R A N D H I S K N IG H T S (Numerous editions available)
This book appeared at just the right time for me. I had started trying to write Mills and Boon novels and it tells you how to do it. Actually the tips in it apply to most sorts of writing as far as I can remember. It also told me about The Romantic Novelists Association which is such a big part of my writing (and social!) life. It also told me about the Writers Conference at Swanwick. I had the best week of my life there when I rst went. I have friends I met there still and it was years ago. RO G E T S T H E S AU RU S by Peter Mark Roget (Numerous editions available)
My mother used to read this to me when I was very little. It was really a bit too old for me but I fell in love with the romance of it all even at ve years old. It was one of those books that had very few colour plates and I used to search through it looking for them. They were very pre-Raphaelite. I used to make the other children in the square gardens (we lived in London) act out the parts. I was always the lead knight (I dont remember Guinevere ever having a role!). F R I DAY S C H I L D by Georgette Heyer (Arrow 7.99)
This was part of the writers kit my mother gave me the Christmas before I started writing. I had been muttering about it for a while and she obviously decided it was time I shut up or put up. There was a dictionary, paper, pens, Tippex as well but it is the thesaurus that most reminds me of that present. I have since bought bigger dictionaries but I still have the original thesaurus although it is very tatty now. T H E A L B AT RO S S B O OK OF V E R S E by Louis Untermeyer (ed.) (Out of Print)
A French Affair by Katie Fforde is published by Century priced 16.99

66
This was the rst of her books that I read, although again, I was a bit young and couldnt understand all the words. This meant I could re read them loads of times. I think my writing style developed from reading her books so avidly. It was suggested I was a fan by someone after I had written my rst book. As I write contemporary novels this was a bit of a surprise but I thought about it and realised it was true.
This was a school prize and I took it home and read it, more or less cover to cover. It has some wonderful poems including St Agnes Eve by Keats, which has to be the most erotic piece of writing on an O level syllabus! Im always comforted when I pick up this favourite. It has poems from every era and if every Im called upon to choose a poem or even read one this is always the book I end up choosing one from.
YO U R SIS T ER M AG A Z IN E TO TH E N E W W R ITER
newbooks is the magazine and website for readers and reading groups with the unique feature that you can claim FREE the books that we feature (all we ask is you cover our p&p costs). Well help you nd the books and authors you dont even know about yet but will want to read. So in the past that has been the debuts of Jodi Picoult, Alexander McCall Smith and Salley Vickers. Recently its included The One Hundred Year Old Man and The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. Big interviews with authors new and established. Reviews by real readers like you who tell it like it is. Pieces about and by a real cross-section of authors.
OVER 40 EVERY ISSUE NEW BOOKS SUSAN HILL AND READING GROUPS
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September/October 2012 | Issue 71
Interested? See page 63 to order a single copy or take out a SPECIAL OFFER SUBSCRIPTION for The New Writer readers.
th, a girl from the poorest nhattan, born to a slum-house the man who broke her heart. me the summer I turned twelve.
Where theres a crime, theres a place

Anthony Boucher James M. Cain James Hadley Chase Peter Cheyney Arthur Conan Doyle J.J. Connington John Dickson Carr Stanley Ellin Joan Fleming Joe Gores George V. Higgins Geoffrey Household P.M. Hubbard Bill James M.M. Kaye Ronald Knox Ross Macdonald Donald Mackenzie Laurence Meynell
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March/April 2013 | Issue 74
ALAN BRADLEY THE MAGAZINE FOR READERS
Welcome to Bishops LaceyA murder every country mile
Deborah Moggach Jodie Picoult
t h e big i n t erv i e w
Tracks of my years
Coming up watch out for Ketchup Clouds and The Spinning Heart.
January/February 2013 | Issue 73
A bookstore is one of the few pieces of evidence we have that people are still thinking. Jerry Seinfeld
If you want to read about love and marriage, you have to buy two separate books. Alan King
When I am dead, I hope it may be said: His sins were scarlet, but his books were read. Hilaire Belloc
The new online community where you can discover, discuss and download some Mark Billingham Serial thriller of the worlds greatest vintage crime novels.
Ben Aaronovitch
The best of the debuts
ancing story of survival and on in 19th century New York.
Jim Thompson OUR FEATURED
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Million-seller and mentor Margaret Millar to many
Margaret Murphy Anthony Price Maurice Procter Donald Thomas
September/October 2012 Issue 71 | 3.00
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Visit www.themurderroom.com to discover and re-discover out-of-print or hard-to-find crime classics.
BOOKS THIS ISSUE Michael Underwood

Features exclusive interviews, extracts, competitions and PLUS breaking news from todays leading authors including Ian Rankin, Denise Mina and Harlan Coben.
Rachel Joyce
And our Book of the Year winner is
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January/February 2013 Issue 73 | 3.00
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WRITING PROMPTS IN YOUR POCKET
WRITING MAPS:
Writing Maps are a portable and inspiring guide through the wonders and perils of writing fiction and memoir. Each illustrated map is an A3 poster that folds down to postcard size, and contains 12 thought-provoking writing exercises to make sure you have writerly fun wherever you are and in ways that will surprise you.
www.writingmaps.com

The New Writer Issue 114

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THE NEW WRITER OVER 20 REBECCA SMITH

April/May/June 2013 | Issue 114

COMPETITION NEW POEMS KATIE FFORDE AND WRITING GROUPS

THE MAGAZINE FOR WRITERS

ANNOUNCED EVERY ISSUE RACHEL CONNOR

Poetry in focus Writers prompts The New Writer annual competition

April/May/June 2013 Issue 114 | 5.00

Writing together, writing alone

Where heroes are like chocolate irresistible!

The New Writer / Choc Lit competition

Taking off the training wheels

from the editors

THE NEW WRITER OVER 20 REBECCA SMITH

ANNOUNCED EVERY ISSUE RACHEL CONNOR

NEW POEMS KATIE FFORDE AND WRITING GROUPS

THE MAGAZINE FOR WRITERS

d the House Writing Map

ting Things Writing Map

Writing Life Writing Map

Poetry in focus Writers prompts The New Writer annual competition

April/May/June 2013 Issue 114 | 5.00

Writing together, writing alone

Your chance to respond to a visual prompt I N T R AY

Rebecca Smith shares her half-constructed summerhouse W R I T E R S B O OK S H E L F

A round up of writing book reviews W R I T E R S G RO U P T H E R A P Y

Rachel Connor eavesdrops on the writers ball

Simon Whaley Is Elitism Fair?

M E E T T H E E DI T OR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 8 Krystyna Green of Constable Robinson

Subscribers response and a new challenge M E E T T H E P U B L I S H E R . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 Head of Zeus

Abegail Morley looks at Cut Up Poetry

WRITING TOGETHER, W R I T I N G A L ON E . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 0 An example of a writing exercise and your chance to try

MEET THE EDITOR

A A collage collage of of words words

Fiction & Poetry Competitions

S P R E A DI N G T H E WOR D W I T H A B L O G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 2 Emily Benet

Something Not Quite Right by Lynne Woodward

What writers block?

What writers block?

SOMETHING NOT QUITE RIGHT

The New Writer Annual Prose and Poetry Prizes

Tape by Richard Hulse

Spreading the word with a blog

spreading the word with a blog

Shop Girl Diaries

THE NEW WRITER OVER 20 REBECCA SMITH

ANNOUNCED EVERY ISSUE RACHEL CONNOR

NEW POEMS KATIE FFORDE AND WRITING GROUPS

THE MAGAZINE FOR WRITERS

THE NEW WRITER OVER 20 REBECCA SMITH

ANNOUNCED EVERY ISSUE RACHEL CONNOR

NEW POEMS KATIE FFORDE AND WRITING GROUPS

THE MAGAZINE FOR WRITERS

Writing together, writing alone

Writing together, writing alone

Poetry in focus Writers prompts The New Writer annual competition

Poetry in focus Writers prompts The New Writer annual competition

THE NEW WRITER OVER 20 REBECCA SMITH

ANNOUNCED EVERY ISSUE RACHEL CONNOR

NEW POEMS KATIE FFORDE AND WRITING GROUPS

THE MAGAZINE FOR WRITERS

THE NEW WRITER OVER 20 REBECCA SMITH

ANNOUNCED EVERY ISSUE RACHEL CONNOR

NEW POEMS KATIE FFORDE AND WRITING GROUPS