Fact and Fiction Cross Over by Lynda Waterhouse and Cassie Marramgrass

Several years ago whilst walking in the sand dunes a strand of marramgrass led me to a character called Cassandra Marramgrass. Stories about the secret world of the Sand Dancers unfolded. Cassie made me research the mysterious and beautiful world of sand dunes. Tonight she is demanding that I write a letter on their behalf. Fact and fiction are crossing over.
So here goes…………
Dear Mr Donald Trump,
My name is Cassandra Marramgrass and I am a sand sprite. We are mysterious creatures who live inside sand dunes and follow the rules set down in the Sands of Time. The first rule states that we must ‘Honour and care for the dunes as a mother would for her child.’ I know that you admire the Balmedie sand dunes in Aberdeenshire, Scotland because you said, ‘When I saw this piece of land I was overwhelmed by the imposing dunes.’ They are special. So I am asking you, on behalf of the sand sprites, not to build your golf resort, you holiday apartments, luxury hotel and two golf courses on 1400 acres of these beautiful dunes. They are rare and as well as being home to the sand sprites they are teeming with life. The skylarks, lapwings, redshanks and pink footed geese to name but a few of the birds come to rest and nest here. Indeed the area had been designated of special scientific interest but this decree has been overturned by Alex Salmond. This is a worrying precedent and means that other sand dunes and nature reserves may now also be under threat.
We have a saying,
‘Time passes, sands shift and
Secrets are revealed’
In time your scientists may discover what the sand sprites already know about just how important sand dunes are to the ecology of the planet. We will continue dancing to maintain the health and harmony of the dunes for as long as we can but we do need help.
Cassandra Marramgrass

Has anyone else been compelled to action by one of their characters?

Man with a skate fish on his head by Lynda waterhouse

 The question we were considering was ‘Does modern art tell a story?’ We were lucky we had been given access to the Queens Gallery and the gifts given to the Queen by The Royal Academy in 2012.

‘We’ were twenty nine children from a Lambeth primary school and me. We stared at this drawing by John Bellany.

 ‘What can you see?’ I asked

A man with a mountain on his head.

A pirate with a home made hat

A man with a dead eye

Is that a stingray on his head? No it’s a skate I replied

Had the skate been blown out of the water by an explosion?

Was the man wearing the fish on his head to cure some terrible disease?

I wonder what they are saying to each other… I mused and the children wrote down some wonderful conversations.

Later on in the session we encountered this image created by Basil Beattie. Again I asked, ‘What can you see?’

There were twenty nine different answers including three sail boats, a tent, a prison searchlight, a doorway to the land of dreams, three old fashioned hats, a shark, a planetarium, the inside of a robot, a magical road, three Japanese bowls with a chip in them, the entrance to a secret cave.

Shall I tell you? I said pausing and milking the moment for dramatic effect…You are all right. The gasp of delight made my day. I'm still smiling now. What can you see?

Heart of the Great Alone by Lynda Waterhouse

As writers how much attention should we pay to the emotional journey we taking our readers on? Do we have a moral obligation to care about our reader's feelings? Or is the telling of the story paramount and hang the consequences.

I was brought up knowing the story of Captain Robert Falcon Scott and his ill fated journey to the South Pole. He was one of the star turns in my Grandpa’s book of heroes and heroines. On TV I watched the 1948 black and white movie ‘Scott of the Antarctic’ starring John Mills.Years later it was the adventures of another explorer, Ernest Shackleton that stirred my imagination as I watched the silent film 'South' accompanied by Neil Brand’s haunting music.

At the moment at the Queen’s Gallery, Buckingham Palace, there is an exhibition of Scott, Shackleton and Antarctic photography. I find this collection of black and white photographs taken in the first part of the 20^th century incredibly moving and inspiring but will 21^st century children feel the same?

Fellow author Bridget Crowley and I are currently leading creative writing sessions in the gallery for children between the ages of 7-11years. The children respond to selected photographs and we set them a series of writing tasks.

Then we move on to Captain Scott and The British Antarctic Expedition 1910 -1913. Most of the children have not heard about him and there is an awful moment as they gaze at the final photograph and they realise that this group of weary men ‘were destined never to return from the heart of the great alone’

Some children are upset.We move back into the education room and ask them to express their feelings in a letter to Captain Scott. Some children go back in time and rewrite history rescuing him. Others tell him about what is happening in the Antarctic now and thank him for the scientific samples that he sent back. Some just tell him they feel sad.

It just doesn’t feel right to end the session at this point so we tell them about the fate of one of the dogs that was washed overboard and then immediately washed back again!

( Spoiler Alert – if you a bringing a school group PLEASE don’t give any of this away)

These sessions have been a stark reminder to me to pay attention to the emotional journey in my own writing and that strong emotions need to be handled with care and discharged appropriately before the story ends.

http://www.royalcollection.org.uk/default.asp?action=article&ID=56

http://www.royalcollection.org.uk/media/pdf/hotga-schools-for-web.pdf

My Halcyon Day by Lynda Waterhouse

I have seen three kingfishers in my life so far. The first time was one autumn day when I was twenty and visiting my first ever RSPB bird sanctuary in Ynys Hir in Mid Wales. I just caught a flash of turquoise. My next sighting was on another autumn day fifteen years later on an artificial lake in Chingford. Again it was just a fleeting glimpse. On Sunday at Minismere nature reserve in Suffolk just as I was leaving a hide I turned and looked through the window behind me. A kingfisher rose up from the reeds and hovered above the surface of the pond. It was an intense three seconds as my heart stopped and my mind’s eye worked overtime desperately trying to preserve the image. Why did my halcyon moments mean so much to me?
In Greek mythology Alcyone was the daughter of Aeolus the guardian of the winds. When her beloved husband, Ceyx was drowned she threw herself into the sea and was turned into a kingfisher. When she builds her nest at sea Aeolus stills the wind for seven days to keep the next generation of his family safe.
Another legend says that the kingfisher buries her dead mate in the winter before laying her eggs in a nest of fish bones which then floats out to sea. This image makes me remember the pagan myths about the moon goddess carrying the body of the dead king, symbolic of the old year, to his final resting place. Then I find myself in the realm of the Fisher King. The wounded king who is waiting for a knight to return and bring the secret that will heal himself and bring life to his desolated kingdom.
As I write this post I realise that the kingfisher and the stories that surround it have helped me to clarify what is driving my passion to write at the moment. I now understand what the theme is that I am trying to capture and keep. It is hard to put into bare words. It needs a calm sea, a still wind and a story to express it

Nosferatau - A Copyright Nightmare by Lynda Waterhouse

On Halloween Frugal Husband was to be found lurking in the grounds of Kirkstall Abbey in Leeds. He was there for the screening of the 1922 German classic silent film Nosferatau with live accompaniment from  Neil Brand and fellow musicians Gunter Buchwald and Jeff Davenport. It was by all accounts an amazing experience with the heavens opening up in an amazing rainstorm just as the film ended.

I find this film both terrifying and touching. It was directed by F.W Murnau who had fought in the First World War and whose lover had been killed in battle. Albin Grau, one of the producers of the film, claimed to have met a Serbian farmer in 1916 who had told him about his father who was one of the undead.

  Nosferatau has influenced vampire iconography and film directors such as Alfred Hitchcock and Francis Ford Coppola. Count Orlok is a vile creature completely devoid of the sexual allure of Count Dracula but at times, due to Murnau’s masterly direction, you feel for him. It can be a lonely existence bringing plague and death everywhere you go. He is a slave to his passion for Mina. She too nobly sacrifices herself in order to distract him. This is the first film, I believe, to suggest that Vampire’s can be destroyed by sunlight.

And yet in 1925 this film was ruled to be in breech of copyright and every copy was ordered to be destroyed.

The widow of Bram Stoker, Florence Anne Lemon Stoker with the support of The Society of Authors successfully took Prana Films to court and won. She was struggling financially at the time to support herself and her son and her only financial means was the copyright to Dracula. She was right to win as the plot was a shameless and deliberate steal from the novel. Yet in true vampire fashion the film did not die as it was supposed to. One copy remained. I'm glad it did.

Fridge Philosophy by Lynda Waterhouse

A lobster telephone fridge magnet needs no explanation…..does it??

Reading recent posts about Celia’s notebooks and Diane’s beautiful sketches got me thinking about where my writing day begins. It usually begins with my glazed eyes staring at my (none too clean) fridge as I wait for the kettle to boil and the bread to toast.
And so the Dance to the Music of Time begins.

This painting by Nicholas Poussin inspired Anthony Powell to write twelve novels after all. I often view the original when I’m working at The Wallace Collection so this fridge magnet is a memory shorthand for me for that wonderful place.

The map of St Anthony Head in Cornwall reminds me of a wonderful holiday but also of a childhood dream to be a lighthouse keeper because ‘you get two weeks on and two weeks off.’ It seemed like a perfect combination to me – two weeks of solitude and two weeks back at home. This formula is still important to me - 50% solitude and 50% society.

I used to have a gym timetable on the fridge but I replaced it with Oscar Wilde. Laughing burns up calories and smiling firms up sagging jowls. Steve Bell raises a more sardonic smile which helps me cope with the dire economic and political situation. Harry Venning’s Claire in the Community is hilarious too.

This quote reminds me that I should be getting on with some writing and if Frugal Husband isn’t in there (systematically) working on his book I should be heading for the shed. It may not be as romantic or warm as Ian Fleming’s Jamaican retreat but it’s mine.

Finally I have a newspaper clipping that quotes the top five regrets of the dying as compiled by Bronnie Ware and I promise that today I will try to have the courage to live a life true to myself and not the life others expect of me.

Which brings me back to the Dance to the Music of Time and my pot of tea is brewed. Let the dance begin!

Keep Silent by Lynda Waterhouse

I keep his picture by my desk. His dark eyes stare at me. His hair is long and he needs a shave. His lips are set in a determined downward curve. He is trying a bit too hard to look like he doesn’t care about me and yet he is carrying a placard which he is defying me to read and consider. Upon it are written the words,
Keep silent, unless your speech is better than silenceThe man in the picture is Salvator Rosa (1615 -1673), artist, actor, philosopher, and possible bandit. I first encountered him at The Wallace Collection which owns his painting of Apollo and the Cumaean Sybil. The self portrait is usually in the National Gallery but can now be seen in a wonderful exhibition of his paintings at Dulwich Picture Gallery.
Keep silent, unless your speech is better than silence
His advice seems to run counter to all the pressure on me to twitter, buzz, hum and fritter my words and myself in order to get myself ‘out there’. Should I deck myself out in the literary equivalent of a meat dress and get noticed?
Keep silent, unless your speech is better than silence
John Le Carre recently said in a recent interview that he likes to be the quiet guest at the dinner table. If we are expected to ‘make a noise’ all the time are we sacrificing a bit of our creative self? After his death Salvator Rosa became the darling of the Romantics because he refused to paint to order. He painted scathing pictures showing Fortuna scattered her riches on those that least deserve them. I would love Fortuna to scatter some random riches and recognition in my direction.
Keep silent, unless your speech is better than silenceHis words challenge me as I write. Silent images flicker on the screen of my imagination over and over again and I dance with them until they are reformed into words. Then I can only hope that these words can successfully transmit those images and emotions into another’s imagination so that a story or a poem comes into existence. A story that is better than silence.

Hair Again by Lynda Waterhouse

My previous post was about the effect a hair cut can have. This month I'm writing about hair again. This time its body hair.

 In the U.K around £25 million pounds a year is spent on hair removal products.  This ‘problem’ affects most women at some point in their lives. It can cause anxiety, depression and extreme self consciousness. And do we talk or write about it? Do we ‘eckers like! 

In the 1990’s I created a character called Lindsay Brown. She was the best friend of Bonnie Fitch and she was the girl with the moustache at school. She became Bonnie’s best friend. At first Bonnie says

‘I suppose I should be thankful that I don’t have a moustache to add to my problems like Lindsay Brown. Poor girl. She wanders around the school with her hand over her mouth, looking like she’s about to throw up. We sometimes bump into each other as we crawl along the edges of the corridors, apologising for ourselves.’

Bonnie and Lindsay become best friends and neither of them changes their physical appearance..

When I was a little girl my Mum would explain to me that my hairy legs were a good thing because it meant that I was an ‘outdoors person.’ As I loved animals and the countryside I happily accepted this explanation.

 As a teenager Patti Smith and Frida Kahlo became my role models. Deep down I was afraid that no boy could ever love a girl like me.  And so began the hair removal process that continues to this day. Even when I was going through my most radical feminist phase in the 1980’s I could not stop waxing or tweezing.

Dr Karin Lesnik-Oberstein is the editor of ‘The Last Taboo: Women and Body Hair’ is the first academic book to look at this subject. It took her a long time to find a publisher as the subject was considered too trivial or revolting.   

Kate Brook writing in the Royal Holloway student magazine sums up my feelings exactly when she says.

‘However illogical our obsession with hairlessness, it is so deeply embedded in the collective psyche that it goes unnoticed, unquestioned and unchallenged. But whether or not it will always be so remains to be seen, because what is perceived as beautiful or ugly has always been subject to change – perhaps shaving or waxing will seem as bizarre a practice to future generations as whitening the face or wearing corsets seem to us today. Before we can stop feeling ashamed of our body hair, however, we must first stop pretending it does not exist.’ 

As told by Peter Andre by Lynda Waterhouse

During one of my writing breaks this week I watched the latest celebrity recruit to the world of children’s literature, Peter Andre, talking on TV. He spoke passionately about the need for parents to read to children at bedtime and to make up their own stories using the illustrations in picture books if they weren’t confident readers themselves. He was charming and modest about being approached by Ladybird Books. It was hard not to like him. His appearances in book shops will bring in new customers and hopefully they will also buy some of the brilliant books written by Sassies.The rest of the interview was mainly concerned with his music career and whether or not he should appear next on ‘The Bachelor’ TV show. Writing a children’s book was only a part of his portfolio.

It was the words ‘As told by..’ on the cover of his books that got me thinking…….
I am not short of ideas. They are literally bursting out of me. What I am short of is that special mixture of time, solitude, self belief and humour to wrestle my sentences into submission on the page. Writing for me is a physical struggle that often leaves me punchdrunk and dazed. Sometimes it feels like torture. It certainly is for poor Frugal Husband who has to put up with my moods.


So I allowed myself a ‘Barbara Cartland’ moment imagining myself bedecked in jewels lying on a sofa dictating my ideas to an earnest Creative writng MA graduate who was now working for me – as an unpaid intern of course.
‘Just finish off that chapter Orlando I have a box set of The Killing to watch!’After all ‘daybed’ is one of my favourite words.

NO, NO, NO. This won’t do at all.
I can’t tell my story to someone.
If I told my story to somebody else it would dissolve in the telling.
If I told my story to somebody else I would miss out on those magic writing moments like the one I had on Monday. After staring at a picture in the Wallace Collection the elusive words of an opening chapter began to take shape. My lips are sealed for the moment.
It’s my story to tell.

A Hair’s Breadth by Lynda Waterhouse

As an author, do you care about your hair? Can you only get down to work once your barnet has been washed, blown dry, mushed with the mysteriously sounding ‘product’ or welded it into place with Elnette?

Or are you like me and only remember to comb it once a day.

I always hated going to the hairdressers. The noise of the salon disorientated me, the smells attacked my nose and I suffered under the hairdresser’s judgemental glare as they ask, “Who did your hair last time?” Edward Scissorhands!

I was traumatised by a nightmare bad perm experience in the 1970s. Instead of looking like Farrah Fawcett Majors I ended up looking like Hilda Ogden. The smell of perming lotion haunts me to this day.

One fateful Saturday afternoon in 1985 in a narrow alleyway in Chinatown I discovered hair heaven. A salon that was quiet, had no dryers and with its wooden floors was more like a Quaker meeting room. Inside I found Stuart. He has been cutting my hair ever since, creating styles that suit me but work for someone who only remembers to comb it once a day and who hates hairdryers.

At first it was asymmetrical 1980s cuts. The 90s saw me grow my hair long, back to short for the millennium, then a riff on the mid-length bob. And Stuart has been there throughout each decade gently shaping my hair and reflecting my character. And yet we only talk to each other’s reflections.

It is always a shock to arrive for my hair appointment and confront my own reflection in the large salon mirror. Then there is Stuart standing behind me. There is nowhere else where I engage in conversation with someone whilst staring at myself. It takes a few minutes to adjust. Then there is the unwritten rule of never making eye contact with the other clients especially if they are having layers of tin foil applied.

A hair cut is a frivolous thing and yet it can say so much about a character. Hair can be a potent symbol of power, sexuality, vanity and shame. It can demonstrate conformity or rebellion. It can age us or make us look ridiculous. The condition of your hair can reflect your inner health and well-being. It can tell your age. That is why hairdressers can be so powerful. There is no hiding from their fingers. They have the power to transform.

Last week, after a gruelling 10 days of non-stop 24 hour care of a sick parent, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Stuart stared at my reflection and with very little discussion he began to cut most of my hair off. I smiled at the reflection of my restored old self in the mirror.

So when you are reviewing your writing consider your character’s hair. Do they need a new hair cut to bring out their true self?

Chains of inspiration by Lynda Waterhouse

I received a CD in the post the other day and I get a mention in the credits. The CD is called Unravelling and it’s by Suntrap. Track six is the song ‘Just like a bird ‘and it is is NOT, to paraphrase Carly Simon, about me. It was written by Sara Byers and is dedicated to her sister Susan. But I am delighted to be a part of the chain of inspiration.
This occurred when my goddaughter Molly Jamieson then aged 11 made a speech at my wedding which began,
‘To me Lynda is like a nightingale, although brown and normal on the outside, she has a strong and beautiful song.’
This one off personal and touching tribute inspired Sara to come up with the lyric,
‘Just like a bird who is brown on the outside
She sings the most beautiful song.’
She had taken something personal and made it universal.
In turn Sara has been a source of inspiration to me. She made a beautiful shell and water sculpture which triggered an idea for a setting for the Sandringham dancing Academy in my Sand Dancers stories published by Piccadilly Press. Tracing the link back one step further it turns out that Sara had been inspired to create the sculpture by some shells in New Zealand.
I feel stronger when I am in a chain of inspiration, surrounded by people who are having the courage to express their feelings through their words, art, dance or music. This in turn sparks my creativity and so the chain continues.
That is why groups such as the SAS and my writing group are so important to me. They provide the spark.
It is also why I passionately believe that children should be given creative experiences and opportunities (without learning objectives and measurable outcomes) to work with artists, musicians, dancers, writers in schools.
Now I’m off to listen to my song! I hope you allow this brown bird her peacock moment.

First Person Blues by Lynda Waterhouse

I woke up this morning with the First Person Blues. (It was two weeks ago when it actually happened). I opened a historical novel and read the first line and stopped. It was written in the first person. I stopped reading. I felt cheated.
Then I went back to the story I’m working on. Its current title is called ‘Magic Moments and the dull bits in between.’ It is a story set in a fancy dress shop in a northern seaside town with a cast of characters that includes an incognito movie star, drag queens, a new age dandy and a flashback to 1976. It was written in the first person.
I always begin writing in the first person. It is often the music of a character’s voice that inspires me to write. Now as I am overcome by the First Person Blues I start to rewrite. Everything changes. The vision of the story broadens. I allow myself a few sentences to linger over descriptions. I agonise over the tone of the mysterious authorial voice. The rhythm of the language changes. I literally feel on top of the story. An all seeing eye and not a hand held camera.
Does anyone else ever get an attack of the First Person Blues?

The Barn Centre - Canolfan Yr Ysgubor 1984 by Lynda Waterhouse

I bought this postcard two days ago after a series of meetings which had left me feeling gloomy and depressed about the future of primary education and literacy. You can always count on Oscar Wilde to find le bon mot.  It made me smile. The older I become the less certain I am of anything. There are no easy answers anymore.

Then I thought about my own breathtaking arrogance when I was younger. The assumptions that I made that I knew better and that there were different ways of doing things. Shrinking violets do not change the world!

As if on cue and during a rare bout of dusting I uncovered this document created in 1984. (Those heady days before the advent of the computer)

In 1982, during the last Tory government and during a period of unemployment, recession and social unrest I was living in Aberystwyth. I had just finished a Drama and English degree and was considering my future. The old Drama and Education Department in the town centre had become empty and I became part of a group of local people to form The Aberystwyth Community Association. For a while in 1984 I think I became the Chair! I have a vague memory of making a speech.

The building was filled with artists, film makers, theatre groups, photographers. Thanks to a Manpower Services Grant I had a part time job with Theatre West. I helped run Aber Youth Theatre and started a group for local unemployed people called Supplementary Theatre. Nothing seemed impossible. 

We ran classes in photography, drawing, clay modelling, screen printing. Open studios were created and classes provided for people with mental heath problems. An art gallery was created. There was a mother and baby drop in room.

The experiment didn’t last. The buildings were returned to the council. I left for London. Some parts of the Community Association survived.

Perhaps there are some easy answers.

The Power of Fiction by Lynda Waterhouse

Last Saturday Frugal Husband (FH for short ) and I went on one of our art forays to The Piccadilly Community Centre.
Several years ago FH invented this pastime. You gather a group of friends and spend a Saturday wandering around a variety of weird and wonderful locations in South London. You have no idea what you will find and the chances are you will be the only people at these venues which are free to enter.
I have found myself in a series of locations; former jam or biscuit factories, a defunct gin distillery, railway arches, a former workhouse, a bear garden and even people’s living rooms. All places worth a snoop around in their own right.
I have experienced an amazing range of emotions from suppressed rage as I tackled a four page manifesto to help me understand the artist’s decision to display a pair of rubber gloves, despair at the sight of yet another impenetrable video installation, extreme self consciousness at coming face to face with a man dressed as a crow in a railway arch or a woman balancing butter on her head. I have laughed like a drain as I watched someone knit jumpers for crustaceans.




I have walked into a deserted council flat to find it transformed by copper sulphate crystals.


I have been genuinely scared by being made to don a white mask and sent off alone into a scary and frightening unknown. In a darkened corridor I started with terror at the sight of a white faced stranger only to realise that it was my husband. (We all knew then that this Punchdrunk Theatre Co was something special)


Back to the Piccadilly Community Centre. What was it? Art masquerading as life or vice versa? This former Lutyens designed bank and up market art gallery had been transformed by Christoph Buchel into a shabby community centre complete with charity shop, WI run café and a bar. In one room a group of war gamers assured me that they weren’t actors that they really did this. I grinned back at them feeling like an extra in some downmarket Westworld style movie.
In another room a group of people were dancing intensely. Someone waved me inside I shied away. The prayer room was empty. I sat in there for a while. We climbed into the attic which had been transformed into a squat. Opposite was a roof complete with sleeping bags, soggy mattresses, fag ends, chicken bones and cans of Special Brew.
By the time I turned the handle of a heavy door that was marked ‘Private’ my heart was pounding. The room was an unnerving cross between a caretaker’s den and a squat. FH disappeared down a narrow cellar like corridor and I fled the room. He seemed to take ages to come back. Back upstairs to buy a book in the charity shop and to watch a Conservative Party video about the Big Society which was unsettling.
Then back to the ground floor for a snoop in an office and to stand behind the counter of the bank. Someone came in and smiled at me. I wanted to say ‘I’m not an actor’ then a reassuring cup of tea and cake.
I had experienced the power that fiction has to convey a greater truth.

My Kind Of Town by Lynda Waterhouse

When I heard the news about Jack White and Karen Elson’s sixth anniversary/divorce party I felt a pang. Karen is a fellow Oldhamer and therefore I feel an attachment to her. It is not just anyone who can inspire their spouse to write an album entitled ‘Icky thump.’

IMAGINE AN IMAGE OF KAREN ELSON HERE -COMPUTER NOT UPLOADING THEM TODAY!!

I hope you’re all right lass and drowning your sorrows or celebrating with a Holland’s meat and potato pie, mushy peas and gravy and a Yates’s Aussie White wine!

These days I am a terrible braggart where Oldham is concerned and say smugly ‘they’re from Oldham’ whenever one of my fellow ‘roughyheads’ makes good. Or I drone on about how ‘we invented fish and chips’ or ‘Oldham is the home of the Tubigrip Bandage.’ My husband tries his best to compete with famous people from his home town and so far has come up with someone from Showaddywaddy and the fact that one of the Goodies was born in the same county. Ecky Thump to that one!

IMAGINE A PICTURE OF BRIAN COX STANDING IN FRONT OF SAND DUNES

When I was 18 I left town. I couldn’t wait to leave without even so much as a thank you to Oldham Council for paying for my university fees or to Oldham Library for providing all the wonderful books and the space to sit and do my homework. This callow youth wrote pretentious poetry and read ‘The Waves’ by Virginia Woolf in public and Dorothy Whipple in private.

These days I’m spending more time back in my hometown retracing my footsteps and treading a newer path as one of my mother’s carers. Losing and finding myself in equal measure.

IMAGINE A BEAUTIFUL BLACK AND WHITE IMAGE OF ANNIE KENNEY

It is a comfort to recall that for such a small town Oldham has produced inventors, radical politicians, musicians, sports people, scientists and actors.

Here are few of my hometown heroes - Dora Bryan, Eric Sykes, Bernard Cribbins, Sir William Walton, Mark Owen, Dame Eva Turner, Dr Patrick Steptoe, Agyness Deyn, Professor Brian Cox and a special favourite of mine - the suffragette Annie Kenney.

Thank you for being a part of my creative heritage.

Who are your hometown heroes?

Five beats of my creative heart - The Book Industry Conference 2011 by Lynda Waterhouse

For the past couple of days I have been travelling from South London to King Cross to attend my first Book Industry conference. On arrival the first thing I did was scan the delegate list to find a friend. There was an impressive array of publishers, booksellers, the BBC, Sainsbury’s and representatives from various book fairs and festivals but it seemed that I was the only delegate who was attending as an author. No pressure on me then to pay attention, take notes and speak up then!
There was so much information to absorb and consider but as the theme of the conference was ‘The Creative Heart’ here are five things that I heard that made my creative heart beat a little faster,
1. Working TogetherMore than ever publishers, booksellers, libraries, the media and authors have to communicate and work together. Tony Durcan, Director of Culture, Libraries and Lifelong Learning for Newcastle City Council’s message was that libraries were a network to die for. Oren Teicher of the American Booksellers Association outlined new business practices between publishers and booksellers that were being piloted to give books a shelf life longer than milk or yoghurt.
2. Embrace new technologyDotti Irving of Colman Getty consultancy emphasised the importance of Twitter but also cautioned care in how you use it. Daniel Greaves of Tandem Films showed ‘Simon’s Cat' ,the Youtube phenomenon made by colleague Simon Tofield which went on to secure a pubishing deal. He then showed some animated trailers he had made for Canongate Books. Here is one I made earlier
http://youtu.be/7eo8XpT4CmM3. Get LocalBooksellers need to build stronger ties with their local communities. One of the best ways of doing this is…..
4. Events, Events, EventsCameron Crow of Waterstone’s was one voice among many that emphasised the importance of author events. Events did not have to mean Big Names – personable local authors who were prepared to engage with customers can sell lots of copies too. Events do not have to always be held in bookshops. Patrick Neate holds his Book Slam events in bars and nightclubs.
5. Literacy MattersSir Richard Eyre spoke with eloquence and wit about how indispensable reading is to him. The more I hear about the work of Jane Davis and The Reader Organisation and how it transforms lives the warmer my heart becomes.
As well as being a moral imperative developing literacy makes good business sense.
Julia Kingsford, formerly of Foyles and now of World Book Night, asked all of us at the conference to develop the habit of taking a book as a gift instead of the usual chocolates or wine along to a dinner party. Perhaps we could also advocate the addition of a book into a children’s party bag or encourage the inclusion of a bedtime storybook for sleepovers? Or how about trying some reverse psychology and ‘forbidding’ young adults from attending Reading Groups?
I felt heartened by this conference, do you?

Magic Moments by Lynda Waterhouse

The story I am working on is called ‘Magic Moments and the Dull Bits in Between.’ I have no publishing contract as yet but this story has been lurking in my imagination for some time itching to make a break for it. In these difficult and uncertain times I have got nothing to lose. Instead of giving in to despair about the state of the publishing world I am recklessly writing from my heart and giving my publisher-pleasing- grateful-to- be- published- persona a rest in order to allow my rebel voice free rein. And what a feisty dame she is turning out to be. Yesterday she rewarded me with a Magic Moment. I was writing a scene where one of my characters is opening up an old suitcase from 1976. I thought I knew what was inside it but as the character opened the case something else happened. The case clicked open on cue and my character reacted as I'd planned but then I noticed something else. There was the faint smell of a perfume. My character breathed in and so did I and KAPOW a name was summoned up from the back catalogue of my life and that name was…..Aqua Manda.

Image from Amersham Museum website

I hadn’t consciously being trying to write about anything olfactory. I had been too taken up with the objects inside the case; the Phoom dress, the copy of Jonathon Livingston Seagull and the journal. But there was now the distinctive orange smell of Aqua Manda to deal with. A fragrance I had not thought of in decades but which had returned to my memory at exactly the right moment that it was needed. After the smell came the memory of the bright art nouveau style packaging and the small blue bottle. One Christmas I had received a bottle of Aqua Manda talc and felt that I was truly grown up. My character had glimpsed the past and it smelled of oranges and spices. The hopes and dreams of a sixteen year old girl, the smell of Aqua Manda, the sound of the Real Thing singing ‘You to Me are Everything’ and the long hot summer of 1976. Here’s wishing you all a magic moment in your writing today. Would love to hear all about it...

Happy World Book Day by Lynda Waterhouse

It's 5.22 am and I am up and on my way to an author event so please excuse my incoherence. Following a blip in the universe I have already posted but wanted to say 'Happy World Book Day!' Would love to hear what everyone is doing? How do you feel about it this year?

Power Ballad by Lynda Waterhous

I have a unique singing voice. It defies description. There is a terrible mismatch between the notes I hear in my head and the sound that comes out of my mouth. An example of this and, one my husband never tires of reminding me about, was the time I started to sing White Riot by the Clash. I was happily singing away when it was pointed out to me that I was singing the lyrics of this contentious punk anthem to the tune of Moon River. I had no idea I was doing this. It just came out of my mouth that way. My brain is more battered juke box than sleek ipod.
And yet I love writing song lyrics. It’s another opportunity for me to create characters and give them a voice. A few friends and I formed an a capella heavy metal band and for this project the persona that I created to help me write the lyrics was a 15 year old lad and his pet tarantula. (I had been politely requested not to sing!).
I have long nursed a secret desire to pen the perfect power ballad. I have been trying to write the lyrics for years and like the search for a good picture book text I have found it incredibly hard to hit upon the right balance between the complexity/ cleverness of the idea, the sincerity of the emotion and the simplicity of language. Still its fun trying.
Songs and chants are a large feature of the sand dune world that I am creating for the Sand Dancers series published by Piccadilly Press. Going to see nu-folk bands inspired me when writing Soul Love. The title was inspired by the David Bowie song. My current story, ‘Magic Moments and the Dull Bits in Between,’ includes one character who writes murder ballads and another who penned the 1980’s hit ‘Canyon Love’ which means hours of caterwauling for me. The Magic Moments bit in the title comes from the wonderful Burt Bacharach song immortalised by Perry Como.
When I’m writing fiction and its going well the ideas and the words tap out a rhythm in my mind. There is an unconscious pulse beating between the words and the image or idea that I am trying to communicate. But is there also a bizarre mangling discord between what I think I’m saying and what appears on the page? Will my rants translate into Moon Rivers? I certainly hope so.

Just Imagine – some good news at last by Lynda Waterhouse

Just Imagine if, in these difficult times, there were to open a specialist children’s bookshop complete with events space for reading groups, writing courses, author events and much more. Imagine if this place was created by a passionate champion of children’s literature and run by enthusiastic and knowledgeable staff.

Thanks to the vision of Nikki Gamble on Saturday 15^th January it happened in Chelmsford! And I was lucky to be invited to the Grand Opening. Husband and I arrived late in the afternoon just in time to witness a re enactment of the opening ceremony by Dr Who author Steve Cole and the brilliant Sarah McIntyre. Marcus Sedgwick was there looking suitably brooding and gothic.

I was delighted to grab a copy of ‘When Titus Took the Train’ written by fellow Buzzaboutbooks.com author Anne Cottringer and illustrated by Sarah. I had heard it before read out in one of our sessions and it was wonderful to see it in book form and to admire Sarah’s illustrations.

Whilst husband was busy talking post apocalyptic novels I chatted with Mike Dodsworth about the power of dance and story and shallow creature that I am I tried really hard not to scan the shelves for copies of my books…..

Check out the Just Imagine Facebook page for details of regular events , contact nikki@writeaway.org.uk or visit the centre at 64-68 New London Rd, Chelmsford, UK