On Writing (Groups)

So, by now you know about my novel and where to buy it.

I have been working on my next book, which is an exploration of how we can set people upon a pedestal, and forget sometimes that they are, like us, only human.

An extract from "Charcoal" was read out on the local radio station over the weekend, as part of a presentation by Holmfirth Writers Group. Thanks to the powers of modern technology, you can use the "Listen Again" feature to hear it for yourself at:   http://www.twovalleysradio.co.uk/listenagain/

I am very grateful to Sarah Collie, another very talented writer, who read the extract for me, as I was unable to attend in person.  Sarah maintains an excellent blog at: http://spud09.blogspot.co.uk/

I joined Holmfirth Writers Group earlier this year, when I was "getting serious" about writing. The first ten percent of "Charcoal" took about two years to write, the remainder I wrote over the past six months. Knowing that I was not the only person sitting at a keyboard for hours on end - creating, deleting, frustrating, repeating, writing, writing, writing - that made all the difference. Other people were writing too - and I found them!

We meet weekly, write, read and share. And then we go to the pub for conversation and chips. It seems to be a long standing tradition!

I thought I would start to share my Monday night writing with you. It's spur of the moment, written in twenty minutes stuff, generated from a particular trigger from the week's "leader". Facilitator may be a better word.

Tonight, inspired by our recent weather, our topic was water.  I wrote this poem.

To The Sea


When the darkest days
Wrap their arms around me
Clawing, tearing, ripping deep.
When sense makes no sense.
I lose who I am.
I lose my purpose.
And doubt drags heavily.
When I am drained,
A shell, my tears spent,
A desert left inside of me.
Nothing else.
No trace of moisture left to spare -
Arid and incomplete.
Then, there is respite.
A rejuvination,
A rebalancing salination,
Provided only by the sea.
Then, the crashing waves
Echo my name back in their thunder,
Throwing themselves, tumbling.
Then, the immense tidal swell
Reminds me I am small
But strong in my stumbling.
The surf, a thousand tiny diamonds
Sparkling atop the deep emerald waves.
Priceless. Essential.
In the air, in the sound,
In the taste of salt on the wind,
I find who I am.
I find my purpose.