Changing gear

While rumours of my retirement have been greatly exaggerated - I wish! - it is true to say that I've passed two of my yoga classes on to another teacher, the lovely Angela, who is taking over from next week. I've taught the last session today and was overwhelmed by the kind comments, cards and generous present. My Tuesday group was my first 'proper' class after I qualified, and I shall miss them all.

However, I'm not retiring, just making space. I shall now have more time to concentrate on editing and writing jobs, and perhaps my WIP books will finally get finished. (Pause for laughter here!) I've said before that I think that September feels more like New Year than January ever does, so I've just started a week early. Mind you, there was a lovely autumnal feel to the air this morning, so perhaps the seasons have started to change. My little conker trees are starting to go orange and my tomatoes are well and truly over.

So it's onwards and upwards. I wonder what other positive changes lie in store.

CTST for the last time in August

I joined in someone else's celebrations yesterday, when I went to Waterstones in Market Harborough for the launch of the paperback edition of The Sister by local author Louise Jensen. Have you come across this book? It's a publishing phenomenon and a cracking good read to boot. I urge you to get your hands on a copy. 

Louise had a non-fiction book in mind to write, so she went to an event on self-publishing to learn more. While she was there she ended up in a creative writing session where she was given three words and ten minutes to write a piece of flash fiction. The words were: forest; spade; secret. What would you have come up with?

What Louise wrote turned out to be the foundations of chapter 1 of her first novel, The Sister. Now with digital sales with Bookouture of 500,000 - yes, half a million - and a three-book contract under her belt. The Sister l has been published in paperback by Sphere/LlittleBrown. Isn't that amazing? The second novel, The Gift, is to be followed later this month by The Surrogate.

Congratulations, Louise.

If you would like to join this bloghop, send your details to laura.6eg@gmail.com  and she will do the necessary.

Five things I didn't know this time last week

1. If you break down on a motorway slip road, you will be in a live lane and should call the police before you call your rescue service (I didn't learn this from personal experience - it happened to a friend).
2. Donkey's years is a play on words from donkey's ears, i.e. something very long.
3. Mistletoe injections can be used as part of cancer treatment (again, not me).
4. Musician Moby is descended from Herman Melville.
5. Venus spins backwards compared to the other planets in our solar system.

I'm happy to be corrected.

Celebrate the small things 18.8.17

The new central heating boiler is in and with remarkably little drama. There was a tricky moment right at the start of the job - much male muttering about condensers and pumps - but it was resolved and now the device is sitting happily in the corner of the kitchen, humming every so often just to remind me it's there.

Naturally, health and safety reared its head. The young chap who came to do the fitting said he knew it was a bit OTT, but he had to put up this sign:

so in theory I had to ask permission to go in to put the kettle on. Dafter still were the precautions taken outside to protect anyone venturing up my driveway from the dangers of the world's smallest hosepipe:

Hey ho. I'm off to Kelmarsh Buddhist Centre this evening for a relaxation weekend. Whatever you have planned, have a good one.

If you would like to join this bloghop, send your details to laura.6eg@gmail.com  and she will do the necessary.

How honest evaluation can lead to success

Following my recent blogpost about the value of feedback, author Gill Arthey shares the story of how her first book came to be published - and how it nearly didn't happen. Gill and I would both value your comments, if you have a moment. 

"I had reached that magic age, 50, which for some reason seemed to be a very significant milestone for me. My four children had all but left home, give or take a few weeks here and there when the need arose, so life for me had changed significantly. Twenty-five years of mothering four boys had been all consuming and looking after their animals, mainly horses, had taken up pretty much all of my time. With the boys gone and the horses reduced, I suddenly had time to spare – but what could I do with it? For some reason I had a really strong urge to create something I could be proud of. After musings about making bespoke dog beds, trendy horse rugs and posh perches for chickens (all of which required skills I didn't have), I decided to have a go at something I had always loved doing: writing.

"My first fumbled attempts were some pretty dreadful children's stories, using some of the characters my husband had invented at story time. Well, J K Rowling had done it, so why not me? I failed miserably! Then a close friend suggested I write about my first three babies, who were a set of natural triplets – not something everyone can write about. (Their baby brother arrived three years later.)

"Once the book was finished, an author friend advised me to use a literary consultancy for an honest evaluation. The report arrived four weeks later and I have to say it wasn't quite what I wanted to read: my punctuation was poor – no surprise there, as I had been moved to many different schools, even living in Africa for a time, so my education was sadly lacking; at no point did I make it clear how old the boys; nowhere was there a description of how they looked. My spirits fell, until I read the very last page: ‘However, having said all of this, I really love your style of writing and your sense of humour. You have some lovely stories to tell and I really think if you can face the challenge of rewriting it, and addressing the punctuation issues with a good editor, this book will lend itself to an autobiographical novel written a la James Herriot style, with your words painting the picture.' 

"At that point I thought probably not. But later, walking past the British Heart Foundation shop I saw a tome balanced at the pinnacle of a book display: The Works of James Herriot. Could this be a sign? Of course I had to buy it, and after reading the first chapter I started to see how it could be done. A year and 300 more pages later, my novel was ready for the publisher."

 A Masters in Motherhood is available from Amazon here.

Is it possible that my house is cross with me?

Morguefile.com

I don't really believe that the answer could be yes, but there's been some oddness at home of late.

First, we lost our garden keys: specifically two for the shed and one for the back gate. Annoying, but not noteworthy. A week later my spare car keys disappeared - the last time I definitely had them was to drive to Staffordshire last weekend. We found a dead frog just hanging in the pond, which my nature-savvy friends tell me is unusual. The birds have stopped coming to the feeders. There has been a strange smell coming and going. The washing-machine is making funny noises. There has definitely been a kind of oppression in the house: a sort of pre-headache malaise that lifts when I go out. Like I say, it's as though I've annoyed the house.

Clearly there is a rational explanation for this. The shed keys have been engulfed by the Flymo; I've simply forgotten where my car keys are; the neighbours' cat has done for the frog and seen off the birds; my dustbin needs sanitising. I need a new washing-machine,  and I've simply had a headache (and perhaps I should check the carbon monoxide levels coming out of the boiler).

I have a lot of friends who reckon to have contacts in the spirit world, friendly ghosts at their beck and call and all sorts of similar malarkey. Just for fun this morning I asked them for their help via Facebook. Could they possibly twirl their pendulums and ask for aid on my behalf?

Back came the answer, so feeling extremely stupid, I got myself comfy and then held out my hands, palms upwards (obviously) and said out loud that I was sorry if I had offended the house, but could it please reveal where it had hidden my keys? Answer came there none. I went off for a shower.

All of a sudden I had the strangest feeling that my keys were in my green rucksack. Sure enough, there they were. How forgetful am I! The thing is, though, that I haven't used that particular bag for nearly a month. Oo-er!

Pollocks!

What is art? Yes, I know that's a big question, but do you have an answer?

When we were in Northumberland a few weeks ago, we happened upon The Gymnasium Gallery, which is part of Berwick Barracks. The signs outside were advertising 'Bethan Huws: Singing for the Sea', described as an 'Installation' a word that can be intriguing or terrifying, depending on your point of view.

The place was in almost complete darkness. We were the only people there, apart from a little man behind a desk who was wearing earplugs. 'Take a seat,' he said. It's just about to start.' We fumbled our way towards a sofa, which seemed the only option, and waited. The installation was a film made in 1993 featuring eight female Bulgarian singers performing traditional songs on Sugar Sands on the coast off the North Sea. I can't say we enjoyed it, but it was extraordinary, and we both kept mentioning it for the rest of the day. Was it art? Well, Berwick Visual Arts certainly thought so.

Last weekend we were at a more conventional art event, the private view evening of the Fellowship of  Professional & Amateur Artists Annual Art Exhibition held at a local museum, where the fare was not only more traditional, but also to my mind more accessible. If part of the function of art is to communicate, I'd say this wins hands down over wailing women (no disrespect intended).

Last night it was my turn to be the artist, when I went to a Paint Like Pollock event at Corby Rooftop Arts Centre. I was so far out of my comfort zone it was but a distant memory. Nevertheless, armed with a plastic pinny and a generous supply of paint, I went for it with gusto, and d'you know what? It was great fun!

The whole floor in the working area had been covered with plastic sheets and we had to take our shoes off, so we didn't paddle paint on to the unprotected carpet in the rest of the gallery. We had been instructed to take along a pair of old shoes to paint - I'd taken some silk wedding shoes I'd picked up at a charity shop  - and we put them on a canvas and just splattered away! The result of my efforts is pictured at the top of this post.

Then we had a go at painting shoes with a brush, in a more conventional style. These are mine:

And these are my feet by the end of the evening.

So, did I create a work of art?

Phew!

Let's give a big round of applause to the customer service team at Amazon who have managed to sort out my problem, sanitise my account (whatever that means) and put a stop to any potential damage. Access has been restored.

I thought it was fixed yesterday, but when I went to my Kindle account it was saying I didn't have anything published, which was a bit worrying. I've only got two things there, but even so... I had a long conversation with an operative, who was very patient and, well, I don't know what she did behind the scenes, but everything is now back as it should be.

It's a bit of an odd day today. I have stopped teaching yoga on a Monday morning and this is the first week when I didn't have to rise at the crack of dawn in order to eat and digest my breakfast before class. I still woke up very early, though, so I've already written an article for Smallholder, broken the back of a monthly subbing job for the Chartered Institute of Logistics and Transport, and polished and posted a competition entry - and it's barely lunchtime. I may have peaked too soon.