Monthly Archives: July 2013

My life…

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When I was seventeen, I met a guy. A year later, he asked me to marry him. Everyone said I was crazy, why would I marry at such a young age, what did I see in him, they asked? They said I needed to play the field, get around. He told me I could still play the field with him, so I did, I married him and I have, and I have never regretted it.

I have just realised, my writing is just like my life. I make a lot of mess, and then my husband comes and cleans it up. I make the mess so easily, it happens all on its own, and then I stand amongst it looking around helplessly. I have absolutely no idea how to even start to tidy it up. Then he comes in and moves a few things around, puts them where they belong, and wham…its all OK again.
If I didn’t have him to edit, I would have given up ages ago and moved onto another book…

He is now trying to get Silk Threads into some sort of shape to put it on Smashwords. I keep finding things I know could be better said…but I suppose sometime I will have to stop – just hand it over and hope people want to read it.

This is my pledge…

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This is a pledge – I hereby promise, the moment I get paid for selling my book, I will donate money to the amazing guy who wrote yWriter.

It never ceases to amaze me how people like him who write such an awesome piece of software, put it on the internet free. Not only that, if you have a problem, (usually its me being stupid, and not his program) he answers your emails on the same day.
I mean, support staff for programs you have paid for cant be bothered to answer your emails.
I can with all honesty say I couldn’t have written a novel without his amazing program. By the time I downloaded ywriter (and please understand, I don’t EVER download anything,) I was so hopelessly confused I am certain I would soon have given up.
yWriter is truly a great program and this Simon Haynes guy is amazing…

I always wanted to paint…

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I have always wanted to paint. I lie about, my eyes closed and imagine bright colours painted thick, with huge wide brushes. Vivid punctuation. I imagine swirls with only the glimpse of an image.
I imagine a few deft strokes, the eye of the beholder filling details, creating imagery. I wanted to be able to produce something which meant different things to each person who stopped in front of it. I wanted clarity, deftness, paucity, conservation. I also wanted vibrant colours which mixed only as much as required.
So I bought paint, boards brushes, and I got mud. I got images even the kindest of my critics said looked like nothing. I evoked no emotion.

Although I awoke after several hours from a muse induced daze on more than one occasion, I can honestly say, that anything I produced worthy of hanging on the wall, arrived there by mistake. The few I did produce and induce family members to hang, were contrived, constipated pieces with no spontaneity. Completely the opposite of what I wanted.
After a long gap, I picked up my pen, and instead of using a few bold lines to initiate an idea, I wrote paragraphs instead.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I write and when I ‘come to’ I have written pages and pages, but I have no idea what it is like. I look at it and sometimes I can’t remember writing it and I don’t know if it is what I want to say. I have a character firmly in my head, but don’t know if I have got the image across to my readers.

I love to read amusing books, yet my only efforts at humour are much like my paintings. Like they needed an enema.

For some reason I write deep, dark twisted stuff. I try to force my readers to accept that the world isn’t a pretty place and that shit happens. Makes me wonder. Perhaps I should have used black, and dark red and purple as my palette.

Photoshoot

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Last week I decided I needed to get a hat for the photos for this blog. I have to have a hat, because although Cush has kindly shaved ten years off my age here, anyone with eyes can see photoshop or not, my face looks like the map of Kamativi (on google.)
So, off to the flea-market I go. I love to go there, all the little stalls and the lovely people who man them. I taught my Aspie daughter to speak to shop attendants here because they are so nice.
I can’t find anything until I get to a little booth which sells only hats. Not really my style or price range.
The whole stall is manned by men, and lots of the hats are for men. They ask me what kind of hat I want. I try to go around the point, embarrassed to tell them I have to hide my face for a photo shoot. Eventually I tell them and are they interested in my hat? Oh no. They are interested in my book. What it is about? Are they in it!
I choose two hats, intending to cover my face in the photos (I have a day job) and mostly because I am vain. The guys, sad to loose me I hope, try to get me to buy others, but I cant afford more. They say if I bring back the red one, I can swop it with the black one with the plaid band, and little feather stuck in the side. Don’t you love them…? They say I can do that if they can read my book.

I wonder if they know, I would pay them to read my book!

FrankieKay1