Join me on Three Wicked Writers Plus Two for some fun with adages and the guarantee of getting one of my Sarah Masters or Charley Oweson books FREE!
I’ve had a bit of a revamp around here. I got bored with the white and decided to go with something more in keeping with the darker aspects of my work that I’ve been leaning toward lately. Sort of combining my “old” self (Charley Oweson) with the newer, m/m self (Sarah Masters). I love writing dark books, but it remains to be seen if the darker work will be taken as well as my other m/m. We’ll see.
The last two books of the Blinded series—Wildfire and Shimmer—are at the formatters, so they should be available soon. Scared is with two beta readers, so that novel will be sent to the publishers shortly. A single title, Grafton’s Point, in the Dreams & Desires anthology, the proceeds going to a battered women’s shelter, will also be available soon. As for WIPs…at the moment I have four books on the go. One for EC, one for who knows where, one co-authoring with Jaime Samms, and an m/m. You’d think with 4 to choose from I’d have the urge to write at least one of them, but I don’t. So, I might well start a new short today just so I keep up with my chapter a day regime that I’ve been sticking to for the past two weeks now. It’s working well, although some days the procrastination fairy does sit on my shoulder and prod me to do other things. Like she did this morning by making me re-do this site. Bless her…
I’m on a bit of a downer today, but ho hum, such is life, and I’m sure I’ll knock myself out of it in an hour or two. Sometimes life throws a curveball and makes me wonder what the fuck the point is with certain things, and I ask myself whether I need to take a new direction. Still, I’ll plod along as usual, see if anything changes—God, I’m always saying that!—and then if it doesn’t, I’ll think about making some changes of my own. Sometimes it’s like I’m beating a dead horse, know what I mean? I reckon it can apply to anything in life: When do you decide enough is enough? When do you say, “Right, that’s it! Fuck this for a game of soldiers!”
Yeah, it’s to do with writing, my career, whether all this hard work is worth the virtual paper it’s written on. But…that’s a story for another day. I think I’m just tired, may possibly need a break after hammering out Scared. Unfortunately, I never know when to quit until I burn out. So maybe I just need to either start a new book or go and do something else for a week or two. Avoid manuscripts like the plague. Um, yeah. That’s likely…
Whatever you’re doing today, I hope it’s a good one, and if you need to reflect, like me, I hope you come to the best solution for you. One that makes you happy. TTFN, loves!
Frank Taught Me That
The sky is full of grey rain clouds. They glide sluggishly. Each separate puff on each cloud is enhanced, the grey resembling the shading of an artist’s pencil.
The wind is cold, sharp. The bushes sway. Each leaf jostles the next. Many colours of green—many textures: crisp, waxen, velvety.
The grass needs cutting. It leans over in places, is non-existent in others. Each blade is a different length, width. I can recall the taste of a grass root from my childhood. Sweet. I cut my lip on a blade once. Blew on the blade to make it emit a squealing sound. This grass drove Frank mad. He wanted a flat lawn like a football pitch.
The fence is sturdy enough. Painted blue. Brush against it and I’ll get splinters. One part of it waggled in the wind until Frank fixed it. Now it’s stoic. It won’t be moving anywhere.
The playhouse is missing its door. The table inside it has come away from the back wall too. The kids like to perch on top and look over at our neighbours. I tell them to get down. It’s only polite I say that. The neighbours don’t appreciate being watched. Frank taught me that. Respect for others.
The ivy is growing up the back of the house. Only last year it was planted. A small bundle that has spread under the kitchen window. It looks pretty. Mind the spiders, someone said. Spiders nestle in ivy. I don’t like spiders but I don’t care if they live in my ivy. Frank liked the ivy.
I can hear the birds that have decided yet again to nest in the eaves. Hear their pitter patter feet as they strut along, bringing their bits of straw and paper and whatever else they find into their new home. Come the end of spring and those darn birds will wake me at dawn with their newly born young, shrieking for a worm. Birds scare me but I don’t mind them nestling in the eaves. Frank had a budgie. He liked birds. Frank taught me patience and that a little wake-up call from tiny birds is a calming experience. A wonder. That new life is up there above our heads, just a foot away.
The side window of the neighbour’s house looks onto my garden. The female of that household dries her hair there and applies her make-up. I used to think she spied on us. She probably thought we were staring up at her. Frank taught me not to be so judgmental of others—that the neighbour must have felt uncomfortable thinking that we thought she was just plain old nosy, when all she was doing was combing her hair.
This is my garden today. The sky, the wind, the grass. The fence and the playhouse and the ivy. It’s not posh. It’s not the tidiest of places, with three boys’ bikes and Little Tyke toys dotted about. A patio table and chair set, one of the chairs upturned on the grass. A rotary washing line, pegs swinging in the breeze. Shoddy and unkempt to some. Frank taught me to be grateful for what we’ve got. There are other less fortunate people out there.
I’m having a cigarette out here, watching the grey cloud of smoke trail from my mouth and disperse into the air. I’m taking it all in, noticing things. Funny how what other people thought now no longer matters. Funny how things are put in perspective. Frank taught me so much.
I taught Frank too. Taught him to stop teaching me things.
That’s why he’s dead in the shed.
He’ll stink come the summer.