The power of sharing my writing

The power of sharing my writing: Day 28 of the 30 Day Challenge. 

The sunshine effect 

I'm nearly at the end of  my 30 Day Challenge with screwworkletsplay.com. I set myself the challenge during 30 days in March of reconnecting with my creativity, getting in the writing flow. 

It started off with a big whinge - I was a writer without an audience, someone whose work was buried treasure or possibly buried rubbish, but it was certainly buried away. 

Over the last 28 days I've been writing every day in timed sessions which is giving me confidence and excitment, and this blog has given me a platform to share my work and thoughts about writing. Some of the work on here is rough and ready stage, and some, like my novel, has been honed for a long time. The point is I've been sharing it, and getting positive responses (responses below have been left on my personal email) such as this about the video of me reading from my novel :

1. Comment by Katherine: "Brilliant writing and I love the title!"
2. Comment by Frank on my video Ivy: "Wow... this is GREAT Grace and you are brilliant for sharing on vid - I loved the way you read your work......bringing it to life.......wonderful  !" 

I'm not sharing this to brag - just to say that being encouraged has had a great positive effect on me and how I think of myself. 

By writing more and sharing more I've kicked away some of the long term writing blocks and I can hold my head high and say I am a writer. 

But what have I achieved? This blog for a start, and although I'm obsessed with the amount of page views I'm getting - 471 to date, I'm also finding an audience - these are the countries from where people are viewing my blog: 

 UK, US, Germany, Australia, Spain, Canada, India, Venezuela, Netherlands, South Africa. 

I have friends in 4/10 of those countries, that's all! If you're reading from Venezuela please say hello!

What's made me happiest  is that I've recaptured that breathless joy that I had as a kid when the pen was running away with me as I tried to capture the world by using words and language.

Finally, I've been making videos and have entered two competitions and written the following new stories and poems during the 30 days: Conceive, Waterley Cross, Collection Day, Easton, George and Fran, Ivy, Donor, Cornish Inspiration, Cornish Quarry and House.  I also read out a couple of pieces at acoustic night at Halo Cafe Bar Open Mic. I came back on such a high - I love reading in public - I want to go on with this and see where it leads. Writing is what I was born to do.  

STOP PRESS: Just heard that I've had my micro-poem (a tweet's worth)  accepted for publication on the Easton Arts Trail ! The poem will be displayed and laminated on location in Easton. 
Here's the winning poem about Easton in 140 characters

Find ackee, aniseed, cardamom, chrysanthemum
halloumi, halva, honeyed pearls


Find ghee, graffiti, mosques and midwives

yam, zithers and zatar.

Here's a quote to end with: 

“I believe that we learn by practice. Whether it means to learn to dance by practicing dancing or to learn to live by practicing living, the principles are the same. In each, it is the performance of a dedicated precise set of acts, physical or intellectual, from which comes shape of achievement, a sense of one's being, a satisfaction of spirit. One becomes, in some area, an athlete of God. Practice means to perform, over and over again in the face of all obstacles, some act of vision, of faith, of desire. Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.” 
― Martha Graham

Guest blogpost: Poem by Simon Tonkin

As part of my blog I want to inspire others to write. What better way than to showcase excellent writing? The classic advice given to writers is to show, not tell. Simon and I have been part of a writers' group for over four years.  His poem is about the process of critiquing writing. 

Today's guest writer is Simon Tonkin

Simon Tonkin is a writer and illustrator from Bristol. His poems first began littering the Small Press scene in the early Seventies and he won the Dylan Down the Ups short story competition in 2009. Since then he has become a full time artist and writer.

His first novel, The Writing Shed – as the title suggests – has the ghost of Dylan Thomas at its heart. He’s working on a second, Other Tongues and hopes to complete that shortly.

 DIRTY LAUNDRY

I warned her,

I told her how it would be,

An autopsy

Performed on something

Unsuspecting; something

That still paused occasionally

For breath.

And yet she seemed surprised

When its first elastic artery was cut

And we were covered, head to foot,

In blood and these awful screams

For its mother.

You get used to it, I said.

So did it squirm

Beneath our divinely guided hands.

What a fine pair of Abrahams we were,

All this done

For Love or Must,

Those obsessive and compulsive Gods.

Wear a Butcher’s apron, I’d said.

She’d thought upon it but declined.

So when her dress was wrecked,

Take it off, I said,

It’s easier to wash your flesh,

I spoke not as pathologist then.

Let’s go looking for the cause of life.

All the classic signs of fear,

Psychic tears, rapid breathing.

Now see for yourself.

The trick is… I added,

Keeping it alive…

While trimming away

The thick fat of mortality

And only leaving

Something that can never die.

Guest blogpost: Bernice Wicks

As part of this blog I asked some writer friends of mine to share their work on my blog. 

Today's Guest Writer is  Bernice Wicks 

Bernice is currently writing a historical novel, Gwenni. 

A Walk in the Park by Bernice Wicks

I was plodding, in a pitiful sort of way, back across the field. It was another damp, cold Monday morning and I was tugging the old dog behind me on her lead like a reluctant kid to school.  A few brave birds tried to start a sing song in the bushes but there’s so few of them nowadays it faded away and they sat hunched up, sad amongst the branches. I was due at work in 20 minutes and if the drizzle got more business-like there would be another 5 minutes dog drying time, another 5 to feed them, or maybe they could wait, the journey took at least 15 minutes. No matter how I played it, I was late. All this and more buzzing through my head, and still half a field and a cemetery to plod through. A voice drifted over from behind and I turned ready with a ‘Good Morning.’

‘Your dog,’ she pointed to the more sprightly younger dog trotting towards me.

‘Your dog,’ she continued airily and waving a hand, ‘Did a poo, back there.’

I narrowed my eyes and gave her the thousand yard stare, as she was only about 200 yards away she should’ve shrivelled on the spot but the effect was spoilt by my ridiculously darkened reactolights. So I did my best truculent teenager impression and said, ‘Well I’m not going to find it now, am I?

What I should’ve said was, ‘Cripes, how remiss, come let us go and find the poo, show it to me that I might gladly scoop it up as I always do!’

She was only momentarily dazzled by my repartee before replying with,

‘You do have to keep an eye on them.’

Now if I hadn’t been late, damp, downright grumpy-as-hell I might have been amused. Keep an eye on him; he was much more likely to keep an eye on me! He was a very nervous sort of a dog and liked to keep his nose as close as possible to the back of my legs, in a constant panic that another dog is going to appear. We live in a city, dogs do appear and then he whimpers and puts his hackles up in a vain attempt to appear heroic. He’s a big dog, looks a bit like a half starved wolf, the look of a dog that swaggers through  the park picking off Staffies and Jack Russsells alike, that cocks his leg against the swings and rolls in the sandpit, a dog that has a lot of deals going down with the local Rottweilers. In fact he acts like a rabbit, a rabbit that’s had some hard knocks but is pathetically willing to come back for more. I welcomed him back with a reassuring pat and drew myself back up to full height and flung back in a shout that had the nearby crows rise from their perches in a cacophony of sound.

‘I think I’ve picked up enough shit over the years!’

Yeah, I’ve picked up enough shit.

Copyright: Bernice Wicks