tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137183492024-03-08T02:02:38.547+00:00Joanna SwinglerFiction, Flash fiction, micro-fiction and poetryJo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-3448531557387916992011-05-24T11:50:00.000+00:002011-05-24T11:50:35.835+00:00May - You Write Your Novel: May - You Write Your Novel Challenge - FAQsJust found this via twitter and decided to give it a go! Love the idea of the daily challenge and the support of other writers; definitely makes you feel less alone but also gives you the impetus to get on with it (instead of de-moulding the bathroom-tile-grout like I did yesterday...)<br />
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Good luck all!! <br />
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<a href="http://80kwords80days.blogspot.com/2011/03/may-you-write-your-novel-challenge-faqs.html?spref=bl">May - You Write Your Novel: May - You Write Your Novel Challenge - FAQs</a>: "I'll add to this as the time goes by and questions arise. What do I have to do? The challenge is a simple one. No bells no whistles. Jus..."Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-45388394852934281032011-03-15T10:55:00.000+00:002011-03-15T10:55:26.377+00:00Authors for Japan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://authorsforjapan.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/badge_redhelp.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://authorsforjapan.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/badge_redhelp.png" /></a></div><br />
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Help raise money for the Japanese tsunami/earthquake victims by bidding at the fantastic <a href="https://authorsforjapan.wordpress.com/">Authors for Japan</a> site. Items up for auction include a dedication in the next <a href="https://authorsforjapan.wordpress.com/tag/jill-mansell/">Jill Mansell</a> novel, first chapter critique and free signed copy of His Last Duchess by <a href="https://authorsforjapan.wordpress.com/tag/gabrielle-kimm/">Gabrielle Kimm</a> and synopsis and short story edit by <a href="https://authorsforjapan.wordpress.com/tag/stella-deleuze/">Stella Deleuze</a> - plus many more...<br />
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Bidding has opened and will finish at 8pm GMT on Sunday 20th March and all donations will go to the British Red Cross.Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-472131814299067982011-03-07T14:38:00.000+00:002011-03-07T14:38:45.220+00:00moving on - when you miss the characters you've createdHere's the thing. You've been writing a novel and there's the first draft done. You leave it for a while, come back and reread, realise how much more needs to be done and waver. Then you do all the technical, hard graft things; redraft, polish, redraft some more, cut your favourite section because it doesn't work, move things around, get the whole thing into shape, and then finally, after all that time, you realise it's finished * and you send it out and wait and wait.<br />
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I can cope with that. I was ready for the waiting.<br />
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But something I didn't expect to happen, something I wasn't ready for at all, was how much I miss those characters. I've spent so long thinking about them, imagining them, helping them do and say what it is they needed to do and say, that now I don't need to do that any more, I really miss them. They exist in a complete and finished world within the pages of the novel and don't need me any more. There is nothing constructive I can do for them now. I have to let them go and move on - spend time with new characters, have fun getting to know them, discover their needs and wants. And I'm looking forward to it. I really am. Honest.<br />
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Yet, I can never quite prevent those who came first from wandering back, creeping in from that vast space beyond the final page to whisper in my ear and unsettle me. No, I'll never be able to properly let them go.<br />
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And I wonder, is that true for everyone? Is that usual? <br />
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So my question is, how do other writers deal with leaving behind one set of characters to begin working with the next? How do they cope with that experience?<br />
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*As finished as you can make it, anyway...<br />
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<a name='more'></a>Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-59525347967090398332010-12-08T10:57:00.001+00:002011-03-09T10:09:03.670+00:00Novel extract (draft)<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘Well, I have to say, I’m getting pretty fucking fed up with this war lark.’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘You may have mentioned that once or twice, Tug,’ says Jem.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Aye, well, that’s how it is. It’s this sitting around doing bugger all that gets me.’ He flings the six penny novel he’s been reading into the mud.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘What, you thought we’d all be off charging across the battlefield in a glorious display of heroism? Daily hand to hand battle with the Boche?’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Tug pulls off his steel helmet, scratches hard at the scalp underneath, and then replaces it. ‘Not exactly, no,’ he says. ‘But I thought there’d be a bit more doing than this.’ He kicks at the book, ripping its pages.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘He’s right,’ says Jack. ‘All this waiting and wasting time. It’ll send me barmier than the shelling.’ He’s writing in his diary, a tattered leather bound book he’s not really supposed to have.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Anything good in there today, Jack? Anything the Boche will want to know about?’ Tug asks.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Just war secrets and the like,’ he says. ‘Nothing important.’ He tucks it away in his pocket.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Jem stretches his arms as high as they’ll go and yawns, ‘Well, I’d rather be bored and in one piece. If I never had to get shot at or shelled by a German ever again, I’d be glad.’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘What’s this?’ </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> They look up and see the tall figure of Bourne who has appeared in their section silently like a ghost.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Conchie talk, is it?’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘No, sir,’ says Jem. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Damn well sounded like that to me. Well, we’ll have to do something about that. Right, you, you and you,’ he says, pointing at Jem, Tug and Jack, ‘patrol, 2300 hours. Got it?’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Yes, sir.’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> They watch as Bourne strides off down the trench and round the corner. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Thought it was supposed to be just volunteers,’ says Tug.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘I think that <i>was</i> us volunteering,’ says Jem. ‘He’s beginning to get on my wick, that Bourne. Sneaking about, spying.’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Bugger it,’ says Tug.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Thought you were bored?’ Jem asks.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Not <i>that</i> bored,’ says Tug. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘You can never please some people, can you?’ says Jack, who ducks to avoid a swipe from Tug.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">It’s dark and they wait for Bourne. It’s a clear night and they can see stars. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘It’s not good that we can see stars, is it?’ asks Tug. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘No,’ says Jack. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Least there’s no moon,’ says Jem. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Always the optimist you, eh?’ says Tug.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘I wouldn’t go as far as that,’ says Jem.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> They stand about for a bit. It’s cold because of the clear sky but not freezing and the fear keeps them warm.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘What are we supposed to be doing out there tonight anyway?’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Fuck knows,’ says Jack. ‘Just as long as we don’t run into any of the Boche.’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘You think we might?’ Tug asks.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Jack shrugs. ‘Probably.’ </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> They stand around a little longer and then Bourne arrives. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Ready?’ he asks.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Sir,’ they say, although who is ever ready for a patrol?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘I’ve told the sentry we’re going out and that we should be a couple of hours,’ he says. ‘The plan is, head out to their line, cut the wire as much as possible, get an idea of their position and come back. Preparation for a possible trench raid later.’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Jem and Jack and Tug exchange glances. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘If we find any of ours out there, check for ID and bring it back. Any contact with the Germans, we come back. Don’t want them to know what we’re up to. Got it?’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> They nod. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Right, come on then.’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> They clamber over the parapet, tumble over and drop straight down onto their stomachs and lie still. It’s black and they listen. Jem can feel the blood thumping in his ears, and his heart must be loud enough for the others to hear. There’s rustling nearby and he holds his breath. It’s Tug crawling along inch by inch. Jem sees the white flash of his eyes as Tug looks round at him, and then begins to follow. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> It’s painfully slow. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> The German line is close, they can’t risk standing and walking. Every so often a flare goes up and they freeze in position until its light dies away. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> They crawl on and Jem can now just make out the others, can see where Tug and Jack are, and thinks Bourne must be right out ahead. It’s just the scraping of their hands and knees on the earth and the thumping of blood in their ears and the soft sound of breathing. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Jem looks forwards and sees the wire on their side. They have to get through it, have to stand and make their way through it as silently as possible. Jem sees Jack signal the direction and gently raises himself up into a standing crouch. He pauses, holds his breath and listens. Nothing. Searches in the darkness for any signs of the Boche, any movement at all.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Then they step their way over the entanglement and sometimes there’s the sound of an owl and further away the distant boom of guns and Jem feels as lonely as hell out here in the dark. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> On the other side, they drop back down onto their stomachs. Another flare goes up. Jem tenses and waits for gunfire. His mouth is sticky and thick and he wants to clear his throat but can’t for the noise it will make. And they inch their way along, flat on their stomachs until they see the wire. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Jem crawls up alongside Jack and together they ease the cutters through the wire, each click the loudest thing they’ve ever heard. Jem’s face is damp with sweat and when he wets his lips he can taste the salt. Something moves near them and they freeze and Jem’s stomach lurches up till it feels like it’s in his throat and then he feels a hot softness touching his hand and he makes himself look and see it’s just a rat. Just a rat. And the rat hurries along and they can hear the wet sounds of it eating something close by. A body probably. Jack nudges him and they carry on with the cutting. It seems to take forever, but finally they’ve finished and they turn around full circle on their stomachs and make their way back. And that’s when they hear the larger sounds of what must be a German patrol. With the flares going up, Jem thought there couldn’t be one, but now there’s the whispering rustle of bodies moving slowly across the ground and the heavy feeling of life near by. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> They lie as still as they can and keep their faces pressed to the cool earth. Jem can smell petrol and the faint reek of gas and the thick stench of decomposing flesh. He hears the light, fast pulsing of Jack’s breathing, wants to close his eyes but he needs to keep looking even though it’s too dark to see. Should they get up and attack? They have their bayonets ready but they wait. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Listen. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Far away they can hear the faint hum of voices, conversation in the German trenches. It seems far away but perhaps it isn’t. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Perhaps this is it, this is the night it will all end.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Jem’s muscles are tight like steel, hard against the earth. His head is a stone. He must become nothing now. There are no thoughts.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> It takes years, but the Germans move away. Just a working-party like their own. Nothing doing. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Jack and Jem continue their painful crawl back to their own trench. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> They’ve seen nothing of Bourne and Tug. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> The smell hits him first, catches right at him and he gags and then his hand brushes something soft. A body. Can’t tell easily in the dark whose it is – one of theirs or a Boche. Tries to look at the uniform and can make out the thick dark of khaki. Doesn’t want to touch it in the dark, doesn’t want the memory of it on his fingers. They’ll send a burial party out soon. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> They keep going. There’s a crack and a shout, a brief bark of something – pain or fright? And then more shots and the strafing of machine guns, a short burst. And they lie still and listen and push themselves as far into the ground as they can. The firing stops and there’s the rustling movement of someone running and they both leap to their feet and sprint the last few yards to the trench and luckily the sentry remembers that it’s them and doesn’t shoot. They throw themselves down and into the hole and a body falls on top of them – it’s Tug. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> They lay there, a hot mass of breathing and panic and then Tug says, ‘Fucking hell, that were close. Nearly bought it that time.’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> And the three sit up and look at each other in the dark and the relief swarms out of them and they grin.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Where’s Bourne?’ Jack asks. ‘Thought he was with you?’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Tug shakes his head. ‘Not seen him. Thought he was with you.’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘No, haven’t seen him since we left.’ </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Odd,’ says Jem. ‘Think he’s still out there?’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Hope not,’ says Tug. ‘They were proper shooting at us and he’d not stand a chance. They practically stepped on me they were that close and I just had to lay there and hold me breath until I was about to burst. Then I fucking legged it back here as fast as I could. Like a bloody hare I was.’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘We heard you. More like a great big elephant,’ says Jack and then there’s the sound of someone clearing his throat behind them and they turn as one and see Bourne standing there. Clean-looking, Jem thinks.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Good to see you all got back all right,’ Bourne says.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> They haul themselves to their feet and look at him. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘I think that all went well,’ he says. ‘Anything to report? I lost you out there, but managed to do a bit of a recce on my own.’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘Found one of ours out there, sir,’ says Jem. ‘Couldn’t find the ID.’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ‘All right. I’ll organise a burial party for tomorrow,’ Bourne says. ‘Off you go then.’</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> And he turns and strides off and they look at each other and from their expressions, they can tell they’re all thinking exactly the same thing and Tug shakes his head with the disbelief of it all. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span> ‘Fucking bastard,’ says Jack, and that about sums it up.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><br />
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</div>Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-90234171567277568472010-12-02T13:59:00.005+00:002010-12-02T14:21:00.152+00:00Exposure - Cinnamon Press<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.cinnamonpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/Exposure-cover2-190x300.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 190px; height: 300px;" src="http://www.cinnamonpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/Exposure-cover2-190x300.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I've just received my copy of this fabulous collection of prose poetry/microfiction, <a href="http://www.cinnamonpress.com/exposure/">Exposure</a>, from Cinnamon Press.<br /><br />I'm very excited that one of my pieces is in there and am looking forward to reading the others. It seems to be a very eclectic mix of work and will keep me occupied this freezing, snow-bound December.<br /><br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;"><a href="http://www.cinnamonpress.com/exposure/">Exposure</a></span> </strong>is an exciting anthology of prose poetry and microfiction selected by Holly Howitt and Jan Fortune-Wood from over 1,000 writers in Wales the UK and across the globe. Ranging across love, loss, hate, journeys and other oddities these finely written pieces constantly surprise, delight and challenge.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><blockquote></blockquote>Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-57739706860157729762010-11-19T10:07:00.007+00:002010-12-02T14:12:10.289+00:00Tomorrow, we will live here<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.saltpublishing.com/assets/covers/648/9781844717897.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 422px; height: 648px;" src="http://www.saltpublishing.com/assets/covers/648/9781844717897.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Just a brief note about Ryan Van Winkle's reading last night at Blackwell's, Edinburgh - it was a very enjoyable intro to his début collection, <a href="http://www.saltpublishing.com/assets/covers/648/9781844717897.jpg">'Tomorrow, we will live here</a>,' published by Salt.<br /><br />Loved the entertaining intros to the poems and of course the suit.<br /><br />Congratulations Ryan and good luck with the book!Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-4461590554272667742010-05-12T23:17:00.000+00:002010-05-12T23:17:15.474+00:00Chosen by Lesley Glaister | Tindal St Press<a href="http://www.tindalstreet.co.uk/books/chosen">Chosen by Lesley Glaister Tindal St Press</a>Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-974925183388287212010-05-12T23:04:00.003+00:002010-05-12T23:14:28.647+00:00Lesley Glaister's new novel 'Chosen'I've been out and about in the actual, real, Scottish, early-summer sunshine to go and listen to Lesley read from her new novel Chosen, her first published by Birmingham based publishers Tindal Street.<br /><br />It was good to catch up with everyone and especially good to listen to extracts from the novel - Lesley's deadpan humour and the voice of her narrator were definitely a hit with the audience and her accutely observed descriptions resonated with everyone. I'm looking forward to reading it. The structure is especially intriguing - past and present interwoven in a way she hadn't anticipated as she was writing it.<br /><br />Good stuff...and the packed room demonstrated just how popular Lesley's novels are.Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-16470131962451599252010-02-07T18:49:00.003+00:002010-02-07T19:01:14.761+00:00Central Station, Dundee Pop-up TourYesterday, I had the pleasure of being invited along to the new arts collective, Central Station's Touring event in Dundee to speak about the process of collaboration.<br /><a href="http://www.thisiscentralstation.com/events/dundee_popup-main_listing.aspx">http://www.thisiscentralstation.com/events/dundee_popup-main_listing.aspx</a><br /><br /> My speaking-partner was Genevieve Ryan, an illustrator and recent graduate of ECA, with whom I worked last year. We were asked to provide some insight into our work and practice, focusing on the collaborative Text/Image piece we published last year as part of an ECA/Edinburgh Uni partnership.<br /><br />The other participants came from a diverse range of disciplines; underground music festival creators, digital music, zines, graphic art etc. <p><a href="http://community.thisiscentralstation.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=19440719&as=126249&b=" title="Yuck & Yum Profile">Yuck & Yum</a> - arts organisation & zine<a href="http://community.thisiscentralstation.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=12863085&as=126249&b=" title="Joanna Basford Profile"><br /> Johanna Basford</a> & Lyall Bruce (aka <a href="http://community.thisiscentralstation.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=19119752&as=126249&b=" title="SooperDD Profile">SooperDD</a>) - illustrator & graphic artist collaboration<br /> <a href="http://community.thisiscentralstation.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=12606868&as=126249&b=" title="Arika website">Arika</a> - creators of underground music and film festivals<br /> <a href="http://community.thisiscentralstation.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=12344461&as=126249&b=" title="Genevieve Ryan's Profile Page">Genevieve Ryan</a> & Jo Swingler - illustrator & writer collaboration<br /> <a href="http://community.thisiscentralstation.com/service/displayKickPlace.kickAction?u=18297546&as=126249" title="Colliderscope Profile">Colliderscope</a> - animation & musician collaboration<br /> V&A Dundee - a talk from the action group Co-ordinator, Georgina Follett</p>It was great hearing how the different groups worked together and what the thinking was behind each collaboration.<br /><br />Having enjoyed the process so much, Gen and I are definitely up for creating a longer piece; possibly a complete collection of images/stories.<br /><br />Lots to look forward to and I'll be exploring the Central Station site more...there's so much exciting work there already...Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-6822465101810376162010-02-07T18:45:00.002+00:002010-02-07T18:48:54.572+00:00Gutter MagI'm very excited about my story being in Issue 2 of Gutter magazine. It'll feature alongside such brilliant, established writers as Ron Butlin, Gordon Legge as well as new writers like Ryan Van Winkle and Anneliese Mackintosh.<br /><br />The launch event is part of the Aye Write! Festival through in Glasgow on 6th March and will feature one of my favourite novelists of the moment, Ewan Morrison.Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-32407400280426815272009-12-06T19:02:00.002+00:002010-02-07T19:21:05.801+00:00Turning the PageOver 50 writers – graduates from Scotland’s Creative Writing Masters and PhD programmes – gathered together at Sandeman House in December for a full-day event hosted by literaturetraining to explore how they could apply the writing and other skills they developed at university to make and sustain a living as a writer.<br /><br />Loved this event. It was massively inspiring and gave me the real kick-start I needed to get going with everything.<br /><br />Adrian Mead, the former night club bouncer and a hairdresser turned writer and director of film and TV, was fantastic. If I could garner half his energy and drive, I'd be happy.<br /><br />Linda Cracknell's quietly informative presentation outlining her own writing career path and the way in which we could visualise and put into practice our ambitions and dreams was incredibly helpful.<br /><br />A great day, brilliant to meet other graduates in a similar situation, great resources and speakers and something I hope can be repeated...Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-25159361173692163112009-12-02T23:44:00.005+00:002009-12-03T00:20:51.568+00:00News and publications<span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >I should probably just update the publication/other news a little here, as it's been so long...</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Firstly, yay for finally graduating from Edinburgh Uni's Creative Writing MSc (with distinction...<span style="font-style: italic;">eyes wide with shock and awe at said result). </span>Loads of pics of that on the Facebook page. So now I'm BA (Hons), MA, MSc...hilarious!</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="style38" >Publications...'All part of Nature', a short story in The Legendary, November 20, 2009. Issue 11</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >as the eds there say: </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 51, 204);font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="style26" ><blockquote>Every piece of writing in this issue gives you a decadent glimpse of life to help you get your voyeur on. These worde WILL leave a taste in your mouth, it's up to you to decide if you like it</blockquote></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="style26" >interesting....</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 51, 204);font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="style26" ><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="style26" >Also I've had a piece accepted for Cinnamon Press Microfiction anthology, to be titled<span style="font-style: italic;"> Exposure; </span>out in September 2010. Very exciting, especially when there were 4000 pieces of work submitted for it...<br /><br />Last but not least, I had a lovely mention in Sarah Salway's essay, 'Stealing Stories', in the fab new book by Salt Publishing called <span style="font-style: italic;">Short Circuit: A Guide to the Art of the Short Story, </span>edited by the prolifically talented short story writing Vanessa Gebbie.<br /><br />Now, back to the writing...<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" ><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic;" class="style26"></span>Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-49352998879490150352007-03-24T21:00:00.001+00:002007-03-24T21:00:45.228+00:00you - poemwhat if there is no <br />place to go back to? <br /><br />a sudden wall erected – <br />blocking past <br />and self. <br /><br />all influences smashing up against it at a sprint – too fast <br />to pull up <br />and stop <br />lost <br />now <br /><br />caught only as strangers <br />on the street – <br />a study of reactions, carefully observed, <br />yes, <br />observed as object, <br />yes <br /><br />but never understood <br />never known <br />no comprehension <br /><br />just a picture of a moment of a time you don’t <br />remember <br /><br />but it’s not <br />you <br />it’s the man <br />that was <br /><br />is <br /><br />was <br /><br />is <br /><br /><br /><br /><br />is there a core of you-ness? <br />or is that you only a web, <br />a connected span of memories <br />and shared conversations – <br /><br />times spent with <br /><br />times had with <br /><br />times shared and loved with <br /><br />love made with <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />now <br />the holes just open up and open up wider <br />and the who you were slips in <br />untouched <br />by any of it <br /><br /><br /><br />they <br /><br />can only remember a ghost – <br />the singing memory of a you shining in their minds <br /><br />but a you blacked out to nothing <br />whispers silently in yours <br /><br />there is no place to go back to <br /><br /><br />there is only now <br />and the next moment <br />and the <br />next <br />and <br />the <br />next <br /><br />till somehow there are enough moments <br />accumulated <br />to make <br />a life <br /><br /><br />you <br />as <br />you <br />areJo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-83775348429848057422007-03-24T16:10:00.000+00:002007-03-24T21:01:47.712+00:00Shadows - a SijoShadows proliferate, shaped large against that blue wall,<br />scrawled across that cracked pavement, graffitied into being – <br />tilting the world into a sudden darkness – only I can see.Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-22196672242003388772007-02-11T18:09:00.000+00:002007-02-11T18:09:03.778+00:00How the rhino - poemPerhaps it’s an obsession –<br />if such a thing exists<br />in someone as ordinary as me.<br /><br />Tucked under the skin, an irritation,<br />wearing wrinkles in, and folds,<br />the way the rhino got his skin,<br />with this grazed remembering<br />of then.<br /><br />Nothing visible –<br />no presence marking the place<br />where it happened –<br /><em>so that’s what went on,<br />yes, I see. It’s evident.</em><br /><br />No<br /><br />stained and rusted patch<br />of anything resembling hate,<br />no slimed unease, no surface-caustic spill<br />that burns and sizzles through<br />to deeper places.<br /><br />No, just this mild re-appearing<br />from the past,<br /><br />and me<br />not choosing<br />to ignore it.Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-45377964197352291472007-02-11T18:08:00.002+00:002007-02-11T18:08:46.388+00:00Bohemian - poemEvening. Cigar smoke.<br />Your arm around<br />my shoulders.<br /><br />You’re talking about changing<br />the world –<br /><br />but first I have<br />to see to the childrenJo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-12940120852489180782007-02-11T18:06:00.000+00:002007-02-11T18:03:19.260+00:00Bloodstones - poemThe gems rattle loose<br />from their settings<br /><br />clattering onto the much too solid<br />ground –<br /><br />vitreous fragments revealed<br />as truth<br /><br />in splinters –<br />and now the glass-sharp<br />edges<br /><br />slide<br />so cleanly<br />into flesh.Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-1151597749879217902006-06-29T16:07:00.000+00:002006-12-14T00:13:45.100+00:00Publication NewsMy poem 'Hotel Room Tuesday' will appear in Aesthetica Magazine 14. Publication of this issue will be on 1st August, 2006, and will be available from Borders Bookshop and the Aesthetica website. <br /><br />The Aesthetica website seems to be getting bigger and better each time I visit, and there's a lot of good stuff going on there, so I'm thrilled to have had a piece accepted there...Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-1147611547528060632006-05-14T12:58:00.000+00:002006-05-14T12:59:07.540+00:00Paradise Street - a poemVoices arc the street – <br />electric sparks <br />blue - too blue - against this sky <br />and day smirks <br />balanced on the white-glossed sill <br /><br />waiting <br /><br />the confession loiters low at the <br />window <br />curtained for a moment before <br /><br />riding <br />on the rolling wave of engines <br />clattering shakes of buses pressed to full with <br />faces <br />mouthing <br /><br />rising <br />on the tightly <br />plucked out song of birds <br />all praising now and now <br />as if it mattered <br /><br />gliding <br />far from her - this room - this window <br />this open street <br />of Tuesdays - Thursdays - <br />strung out flags of welcome <br />red with celebration <br /><br />but not for her <br /><br />she curls against it - <br />lets the sting invade <br />and burn its way <br />to the root <br />then pinnacle <br />of her – <br />to cauterise the almost-longing <br />that she felt <br />but couldn’t keep <br />couldn’t save <br />couldn’t allow – <br /><br />there isn’t enough day <br />isn’t enoughJo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-1147612247494651092006-05-14T12:10:00.000+00:002006-05-14T13:13:29.380+00:00falling back - a poemYou rampage<br />shining through your life<br /><br />sabotaging from the inside<br />before they can.<br /><br />Easily done<br />without too much thought<br /><br />or preparation<br /><br />just this<br />relentless<br />leaning into the void<br /><br />faltering on the brink<br />then falling back<br /><br />if allowed<br /><br />or not –<br /><br />but<br />by then it<br />doesn’t matter.<br /><br />By then<br />there’s nothing to fall back<br />forJo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-1145194094597025842006-04-16T13:27:00.000+00:002006-05-14T09:38:06.666+00:00sonata - poemShe plays here every Saturday <br />in this cliff top café - <br />Beethoven, Mozart, <br />depending on the weather – <br /><br />while he sits by the window <br />watching the sea <br />and feeling <br />the sweep of the notes <br /><br />as her fingers glide, <br />fluid as the waves, <br />as clean as the gulls’ sheer flight <br />to the horizon. <br /><br />He trails in her wake – <br />displaced <br />a little more <br />each time, <br /><br />dying with the last <br />resonance – <br />falling in a way <br />he doesn’t yet know the name for <br /><br />and all the while <br />her fingers place the notes <br />there <br />then, <br /><br />closer, <br />as the waves flatten whitely <br />against the shore <br />white against black<br /><br />to the brink of him <br />and beyond.Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-1143656427953233032006-03-29T18:20:00.000+00:002006-03-29T18:20:27.960+00:00<a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/43/6934/640/DSC00038.0.jpg'><img border='0' style='border:1px solid #000000; margin:2px' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/43/6934/200/DSC00038.0.jpg'></a><br /><br />'listening to the earth as it curves <br />down and down to the waves � <br />tight-roping between the fields' Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-1143655514660715682006-03-29T18:05:00.000+00:002006-03-29T18:05:14.666+00:00<a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/43/6934/640/DSC00043.jpg'><img border='0' style='border:1px solid #000000; margin:2px' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/43/6934/200/DSC00043.jpg'></a><br />'the edge of the world'Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-1141423651328251552006-03-03T22:03:00.000+00:002006-03-06T11:11:13.103+00:00published sort of stuffI try to write - some things have been published but most haven't. Short stories and poems have so far appeared in: QWF, Decanto and Gold Dust Magazines. I have also been long listed for the Bridport International Poetry Competition 2005,the Cinnamon Press First Collection Award, 2005 and Cadenza Short Story Competition. Two of my poems have been reviewed for the Guardian Poetry Workshop and are published on the Guardian's website. And that's the gen to date. More if and when...Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13718349.post-1139841369163158812006-02-13T14:35:00.000+00:002006-02-13T14:36:22.950+00:00Traces - a poemHauled from a blank-sided sleep<br />by the splash on your face <br />of an early spring morning –<br /><br />and a bird you don’t recognise<br />sings in the tree in the applelight – <br />each note playing across <br />your drink-roughened thoughts like <br /><br />a breath<br /><br />recollected.<br /><br />I slide around the edges of this moment – <br />glide along the margins of your life,<br />disturbing the planes of your senses – <br />a sudden taste familiar <br />as my mouth stops yours<br /><br />my scent decorates the air<br />gratefully tracing a route –<br />your way of escape – <br />if you could only decipher it.<br /><br />I’ll wait, though, till you do<br />and cradle the weight of your grief<br />in my hands;<br /><br />ease between this skin of death<br />and dark. Insinuate a way <br />through to your dreams – <br />mark the way more clearly.Jo Swinglerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13957851431793934770noreply@blogger.com0