Bewildering Stories: Eensy Weensy

I've always been suspicious of the spider that lives under the bath. What does he do there all day? Plotting and planning, organising his kingdom come the revolution, I imagine.

So I wrote a little story, Eensy Weensy, about this evil wee beastie, which Bewildering Stories have published this week.

Also, check out Oonah V Joslin's poem, Whatever Happened to Tea - and Sympathy?

Writing in America

Inspired by Tania Hershman's recent posts about ex-pat writers (or in her case, recently repatriated ex-pat writers) I decided to think a little about how the move has affected my writing.

I am currently sitting in my study in my house just outside Washington DC. I put up a photo of this room a few posts ago, but that was before the clutter arrived with the shipping. It is now filled with books, pictures, printers, bits of miscellaneous paper and my trusty Leonardo da Vinci action figure.


Out of my window I can see typical neat suburban houses. A couple of times a day a yellow school bus comes round picking up and dropping off kids. The families here are a complete mix of colours and religions; it’s far more multicultural than where I’ve just left in the West Country. The kids all look like your typical American kids: climbing onto the bus in jeans, sweaters and sneakers… do they realise that most of the rest of the world have to wear school uniforms? It’s a million miles from my old tartan skirt and tie, with regulation bottle green woollen jumper.

So that gives a little snapshot of my surroundings.

Since leaving Leeds in 1998 I have lived in Edinburgh, New York State, Australia, Bristol and Gloucestershire. And now back to America. I have travelled in South East Asia for several months, Central America, Europe, and once did a road trip across America. To say I have itchy feet is an understatement.

It felt quite natural to up and leave to another country. Much of my writing is influenced by places I have been and I was excited to think of the inspiration my new surroundings would give me.

The speech patterns are different in America. It isn’t just the words and phrases people use, it’s the whole rhythm of speech. This also varies hugely by state and by cultural background. I know the language is the same but I feel like a fish out of water every time I go up to someone and ask for something, or speak on the phone. I rehearse what I am going to say. It’s not like you can get away without speaking, everyone talks to you in shops, queues (lines!), lifts, etc. Then there is the slight double-take, pause and, “where is that accent from?” Most people say they “love the way I talk,” which is probably a different reaction than other immigrants might get and maybe I should be grateful for that, but it would be nice to not have to think so much about interactions.

So how have my experiences so far affected my writing?

I am far more aware of speech patterns when writing now. I have written various pieces set in America and I try to make the ‘voice’ authentic.

The landscape, cities, countryside, urban areas, all slip into my writing. I am more respectful of trees now. Forests, rather. Trees here go on for hundreds of miles. There are so many of them. Even in my civilised little suburb I never feel too far from some very wild trees. Nature is bigger here. Everything is bigger! I would like to get a sense of than expansiveness into my writing.

I have started writing more poetry here. Poetry happens when I am feeling introspective, which is not surprising. I have started my second novel, too. Somehow new projects and new beginnings go well together. Or maybe I have just picked up on that infectious American spirit. Yes, we can!

Is it too late for a Halloween poem?

Californian Pumpkin-Carving Party

“Bring beers and a pumpkin,” called Jeff
as he pulled away from the kerb.
I watched him go, dreading the party
but knowing Hot Amy, Jeff’s girlfriend,
(pretty eyes, great ass) would be there
and Jeff said she’d be bringing friends.

Jeff was a big kid: he’d gone to town at Target,
buying armfuls of pumpkin crap
and wheeling the cart out to his car
under the luminous, sun-bleached sky,
sweating with the effort.

Orange scoops and plastic-handled knives,
books with themed transfers and skeleton-
design beer smothered the table
with their kitchness. Hot Amy had taped
a bat transfer on her pumpkin and her tongue
stuck out a little with the work of carving.
Her friend had a thick waist and coffee breath.

My pumpkin was the stray no-one wanted,
left on the shelf as the Christmas decorations
flooded in to take their place.
Too tall and thin to fit a transfer,
I freestyled (after three beers I had
more enthusiasm) and carved a bat like Amy’s.
But not like Amy’s. “Looks like a palm tree,”
said Jeff. So a sawed a trunk.
“That’s not scary,” said Amy’s coffee-breath friend.
I took the little knife out of her clammy hand
and made a couple of raindrops.
“That’s my idea of scary,” I said.

A Halloween Story for You

Mr and Mrs Blearmont

The feud had started when my son lent their son his copy of Harry Potter at school. I had opened the door that evening to Mr and Mrs Blearmont’s furious faces. They had asked me whether my corruption of their boy was intentional or whether I was just stupid? I opted for stupid, which made them even angrier.

This year the children were old enough to go Halloween trick-or-treating on their own, providing they stayed in the cul-de-sac and Will looked after Elspeth. I have to admit I welled up a bit watching Will fix an errant glow-in-the-dark nail back to his little sister’s finger as they left.

When they came back Elspeth was in tears.

“What happened?” I asked in my sternest voice.

“Mr and Mrs Blearmont just went off at us!” said Will, looking injured that I could have thought it was something he’d done. “They started ranting about All Saints’ Day and church and all that gubbins. Said it was a religious day and ‘not for those who seek to profit by witchcraft’.”

I should have warned them not to go to Number 13 but I have to admit I snorted at his excellent impression of Mrs Blearmont. I took their Sainsbury’s bags off them (thoughtful that they made them such a seasonal orange) and led them through to the kitchen where my cauldron was just coming to the boil.

“Now that woman is talking out of her bottom, I’ll have you know,” I said, scooping a cupful of the uplifting potion I had just brewed for each of the children and handing them both a Liquorice Allsort.

“We had Samhain first and they stole it off us with all their goody-two-shoes saints nonsense. They’re just cross that our party was more popular.”

I dried Elspeth’s tears with a flick of my wand and took a Mint Imperial for myself.

Welcome!

We've had some new followers to Writer in the Wilderness recently, as well as a few more who subscribe (I'm not sure what that actually means. I think the Piskies give them a nudge when I put a new post up).

So, welcome to you all and thanks for joining me here in my little corner of the blogosphere. There's tea and biscuits in the tins by the kettle, please help yourself.

The picture is of the berries on the Heavenly Bamboo (not a true bamboo, it keeps to itself and doesn't spread like bamboo does) that lives on my balcony. He is looking beautiful at the moment; autumn suits him.

Horror!

Happy Spooky Season!

To celebrate all things ghoolie and ghostie I have been carving pumpkins as you can see... the bottom right one was supposed to be a scary pig but looks more like a Spanish Civil War ringmaster. Maybe that's scarier.

My flash, Prayer in the Storm, written for their Past-themed Halloween contest, is up at MicroHorror today. Read and enjoy!

Mrs Aldershott and Pease Pottage

My story, Mrs. Aldershott and Pease Pottage is out now in the November (not October, as previously mentioned!) issue of First Edition Magazine, available from WH Smiths and Borders.

Unfortunately, it is only for sale in Actual Real Paper (ARP) format in the UK but there is a web edition that you can download from the website although (sensibly, perhaps) they still have the October edition up at the moment.

The story tells of a Cornish Piskie who has run away from his job loading the internet because he is fed up with all the porn. A chance meeting with a sweet old lady with a crush on Alan Titchmarsh changes his perpective.

As you can imagine, I am excited about being in an ARP story magazine and can't wait to see it when it finally finishes its swim across The Pond. Hope it's not too wet.

UPDATE...
Nope, that's wrong. I've just been looking at their website and you can order a copy from anywhere in the world but there's no web version. Sorry about that!

Bewildering Stories: Third Quarterly Review

My poem, Chess, is one of the editors' choices for the Third Quarterly Review at Bewildering Stories.

Also, congratulations to Oonah V. Joslin for her short story Pure Research, also up there!

See link to the right of the page.

Exciting news!

My story Mrs Aldershott and Pease Pottage will be in the October issue of First Edition.
I'll put up a link with the others on the right hand side of the page when it's out. It is available in actual real paper format from WH Smith's and Borders.






And an exciting shipping update... it's here!! I haven't done any writing over the last couple of days because I've been unpacking 61 boxes of Stuff. I have books on bookshelves, teacups in the cupboard and immense amounts of chocolate on what has now become the Chocolate Shelf.
My lovely pristine study is not quite so stark any more and is knee deep in clutter, as every good study should be.

A Room of One's Own

It seems that each week we are here in our new life in Americaland we move a step closer to being Properly Settled In. Nested, maybe.


The first week it was the connection of the internet.
Getting my own car was certainly a biggie; options for public transport out in the suburbs are severely limited to non-existent. We are now a two-car family, which feels very strange and not a little guilt-inducing.

Last week the acquisition of my own desk and chair caused great jubilation (biscuits were consumed with gay abandon). A friend mentioned he had them mouldering away in his garage and would be grateful if I could take them off his hands. No further encouragement was needed and they were quickly installed in the little bedroom, henceforth known as Jen's Study. Yes, I had a room of my own, and Virginia Woolf posted her congratulations up on my Facebook page.

It is further from the kettle than the kitchen table where I used to write, but it doesn't cause back pain after a day of typing, which has to be an improvement. My friend will have to get an acknowledgement when I finally publish a novel.

You may notice the study is a little bare. It has all the important details: laptop, tea, etc., but our shipping is yet to arrive so the pictures and books will be moving in at a later date. The ship has now docked but the boxes have to clear Customs, a terrifying prospect. If my four mega-boxes of Yorkshire Tea or supply of Cadbury's doesn't get through I'll be marching down there with a sharp stick, I tell thee.