Guest blogpost: David Peak, novelist

I met Dave Peak over twenty years ago, when I attended his evening classes in creative writing. He was always hugely encouraging to fledging writers including me. Graduates of his classes have set up writing groups and gone on to work in magazines such as The Spark.

Dave encouraged me to celebrate my 'unique voice'. As he put it recently if there's 100 people in a room 50% will like you and 50% won't, but there will be no-one else who can write in your voice, in your style. He also encouraged me to believe in my writing, something I'm still struggling with, but which makes an enormous difference to my ability to be creative, and get to the nub of things.

I left his class when I had my first child and lost touch with him until recently when he read at a spoken word event - Word of Mouth, at the Thunderbolt in Bristol, last month.

Dave has had three novels published: No 4 Pickle St, The Cotoneaster Factor and Go Gentle.

This is an extract from his unpublished novel, Miss Woo Country.

Once the storm passed a hypnotic wind came through the french windows carrying with it the smell of the hedgerow. I doubt Colquahoon noticed. He's more a numbers man. Most times he crosses the dayroom
without sound like a butterfly on a summer day. Is it summer? Or summer's? Jugg used to explain that sort of thing and then he'd make transgressors - of which I was one - write it out oh a hundred times.
I shall not in italics do whatever it is again. Such severity had its good points. For example I've never since spelt different wrongly. I used to miss out the first e. Jugg wore linen jackets whose pockets
were dappled with chalk dust. I don't think he ever married though he did have a number of whitened cats. They were in the paper when he died. Homes Wanted. Ten to one they drifted back. Cats don't settle
easily elsewhere. The word's territorial. Like me. I was never one for roaming or for following in the footsteps of whoever. I was afraid something might happen while I was out of range of home. A certain oh
no leapt to mind if ever anyone suggested a night away.

If only I could make it out to the patio under my own steam. It's an ache. Not an unpleasant one necessarily. I'm perturbed by Colquahoon's fixation on his Times when he can - in fact - get up and go out there
if he wishes. Perhaps he'll occasionally cross his slippers or clear his throat. Any number of things. I heard Harry invite him earlier - Harry's good like that though not with me evidently - for what he
called a turn round the grounds. Old Colquahoon dug his heels in. I'm fine where I am, he said gruffly. I enjoy the occasional adverb even though Jugg said too many are a sign of laziness. I'm not even sure it
was gruffly. I used it because it made the sentence scan in my head.


Dave - thanks so much for sharing your latest work - Grace.

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.