my beloved swing!
Originally uploaded by __Adele__.

Here's an old photo of me as a child. I spent hours on end on this swing, loving the feeling of nearly flying! I wanted wings of my own, so I could let go of the ropes and zoom up to the cloudy sky and beyond....

This morning I emailed a copy of Shell Boy as a submission to a competition called Oceans of Stories currently being run by Liverpool John Moore's Uni and Edge Hill College. Winning pieces are to be read at Hemmingway's Cafe in Liverpool on May 9th.

I've just pegged out a huge pile of laundry. Was that wise? I'm already having second thoughts, as the sky has rapidly turned an ominous charcoal shade. It rained non-stop all yesterday. Here's hoping the weather will be better on Monday, as Sylvia (gelertandbess) will be here with the intention of visiting Hilbre Island. (See edit)

Tamsin has just been returned from a prospective literary agent, with a standard thanks-but-no-thanks letter. So I've taken another look at the opening chapters of the novel and, with the phrase "Murder your darlings!" ringing in my ears, have decided to edit down two chapters into one. This will tighten the pace. If I can find fault with it, you can bet someone else certainly will. Honestly, I've totally lost count of how many times I've re-written the start of this novel.

Last night we watched Beowulf, the version which Neil Gaiman co-wrote. At first the animated reminded me of Shrek, which is not complimentary, but then the story caught my interest - and certainly I loved the symbolism woven throughout the plot and imagery.

Edit:- We now have torrential rain and hail stones! *chuckles*

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Her Most Noble Lady Adele the Bard of Wirral Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Much of yesterday was spent writing Shell Boy. Did it really take all day to produce five hundred words? Hmm, I’m afraid it did… Sometimes that’s how writing goes – with me, anyway. One day words will flow so swiftly it’s as if my typing isn’t quick enough to keep up. On another day, however, it’s like treading through treacle.

While writing Shell Boy, I was thinking about the film Death in Venice, and of those who indulge in people-watching along the promenade here. I was also thinking of a valued friend of mine, an Italian who shares my penchant for collecting shells, in particular an LJ post of his in which he had smiled kindly in response to the interested gleam in an elderly person’s eye. He had recognised that, in time, he might well find himself cast in the role of the aged and easily overlooked admirer.

I was also thinking about a role of Michael Cane’s which had him declare that he’d been through two wars, had held friends while they died, had loved one woman with more passion, and had experienced more of a life completely experienced than the youngster who was giving him earache. (If this isn’t an altogether accurate rendition, I accept full responsibility, my memory for films being notoriously suspect! In fact, I can’t even recall which film this was from.)

Interestingly, the above paragraphs come to 258 words – just over half the length of the story, and written in a fraction of the time.

Onto something else…
Recently I wrote a book review of Dancer by Colm McCann, which is published on Amazon. In this, I mentioned an old newspaper clipping depicting a photo of Rudolf Nureyev which I’d kept since childhood. Having written this review, I wondered where this clipping had gone to. I couldn’t imagine throwing it out; it is one of that particular category of personal treasures in which no-one but the owner could possibly find any value, and yet which are precious nonetheless.

Waiting for the bath to fill, I browsed through some old books which are crammed onto a shelf in the front bedroom, which is destined to become my writing office eventually. Meanwhile, it’s piled high with large boxes containing our new bathroom, DIY tools, paint tins and “useful stuff” ad infinitum. Anyway, I happened to pick up a paperback by Richard Bach. The spine is damaged and some of the pages have come loose, but never mind about that. It had been at least ten years since I had last read Illusions. So I opened up the battered front cover with a smile – and there was Rudolf, coolly gazing out at me. He’s now stuck to the side of my computer desk. If you wish to know the significance of this image, you'll have to read the review. Meanwhile, here he is:-