Train-ing Day.......

Today I find I’ve got the time for writing a blog as I’ve been down to Liverpool for a training course on writing and reviewing fire risk assessments. This means I’ve a few hours to kill on the train and for once I’ve brought the laptop with me so I’m sitting at a table as I whizz backwards through the countryside in the gloom of a Scottish summer at 70 or 80 miles an hour, typing away and listening to some great music pouring out of my headphones.  I’m not sure but from some of the glances that have come my way I may have been singing along. It’s not a pretty thought, so if you’re reading this and have just spent three hours beside a nutter singing out loud on the train from Preston to Edinburgh then I sincerely apologise

It’s not like me to be organised but for once, after just 53 years of practicing, I have my act well and truly in order, at least in one tiny way. I’ve made use of some odd bits of time here and there to organise scheduling of ‘The Sunday Post’ poem blogs right through to Christmas and have several more sitting ready to schedule to start off 2013. It felt very odd to be sitting here in July posting a blog for Dec 23^rd even if the weather is more reminiscent of early winter with the last few weeks of record rainfall.

The poems are the only bit of the blog I’ve consistently planned in advance and usually I manage to keep a week or so ahead, but for once I found myself with a list of poems in mind and some time to both get them transferred into blogger and to organise them into a preferred chronology of sorts for scheduling. Not that the order makes any sense because of structure or anything like that. I like to be organised with the poems so that there is always a regular posting to cover the event of work interfering with blogging or, as is sometimes/often the case, I find inspiration has deserted me. As far as ‘normal’ posting is concerned I tend to just bash away with whatever is in the brain cell at the time. That seems to work for me for the most part. The only exceptions to this are the Scots history tales as they tend to need a bit more in the way of research and structure is more important to make sense. These have been missing of late because they tend to take a while to research and organise and I find myself writing and rewriting to make things clearer or to flow better.

Time for blogging has been sparse recently and has coincided with one of those spells where inspiration has been posted AWOL too. I’m not a naturally ‘creative’ kind of writer so imaginary tales or situations aren’t really my thing even though I do like to read a lot of fiction. In the past I often posted tales of interaction with Jess our cat, which proved popular, but work has separated Jess and I to a fair degree and she now spends much more time with The Lovely G so I am bottom of the list of preferred partners. Being bottom of a list of two isn’t too bad I suppose in the big scheme of things. I suppose there are tales to be told of working with Autism Spectrum disorders but I have hesitated on this so far. Beyond the obvious protection of privacy and dignity I’m not sure if that’s a topic I want as part of what’s been to date simply a personal blog. Actually, having just written and read that off the screen, I’m pretty sure I won’t be writing about that. The potential pitfalls may be just too great.

Despite the bad weather, the summer {?} is marching on and the annual cycle repeats itself as Edinburgh braces itself for The Festival. Venues are beginning to put out hoardings and billboards are jumping up all over promoting everything from circus acts to ladyboys or the huge influx of comedy shows.  For me this is the best time of the year to live within easy reach of Edinburgh. I love the city at festival time and, while normally I would grump for Scotland about queues or rude tourists or shop assistants or creaking public transport or a myriad of other things, I will happily choose to spend days among the crowds, put up with being jostled while queuing for anything from tickets to drinks to a place at a public convenience and happily point lost souls in the direction of castles, toilets, pubs, clubs or shows and revel in making conversation for a while with people I would never normally talk to or may never meet again.

My personal highlight to The Festival is the Edinburgh Book Festival, the world’s largest book festival and destination for literally hundreds of authors of all genres to come and meet the public. British authors are a huge part of the book festival and I enjoy going to see a few regulars every year: Ian Banks, Ian Rankin and Christopher Brookmyre. These Scottish authors are constants at the festival and are some of the hottest tickets for us parochial Scots. Luckily as a ‘Friend of the Book Festival’ I’m able to get tickets in advance of public release which guarantees me two tickets at any 10 events I want to see. These three are always the non-negotiable first on the list as they are some of the finest raconteurs and ad-hoc responders to unexpected questioning from the audience. Ian Rankin and Christopher Brookmyre have particularly Scottish voices compared to Ian Banks but he is probably the best of them all in terms of what he is willing to give to the audience. One of those people you would love to spend an evening in a bar with – although he could probably drink me under the table. We share a love of single malt whiskies and his book 'Raw Spirit' - about touring the distilleries of Scotland on assignment to find ‘ the perfect dram’- is one of my favourites as it’s a highly personal tale of the jaunts and japes that often took place while enduring the hangovers that attention to detail in an assignment like that seems to have demanded and covers not only his love and knowledge of whisky but of his love of Scotland and its 'great wee roads', for cars and motoring, family and friends and all in his unique style of inquiry into those crazy trains of thought that sometimes come through in his writing.

This year the festival has potential to be extra fun as I get to go exploring with my new telephoto lens which promises to be ideal for some of the candid people shots that I love to take. Since getting my newest addition to my camera kit I’ve not really had the chance to get out and about and find out exactly what my 150 – 500mm telephoto lens can really do. Weather and work have conspired against it.

Oops - time's marched on  - and I've been goofing off doing other stuff as well as writing a bit now and then - and the train is coming into Edinburgh. Time to pack up and get on my way home.

See you later.

listening to:

Lost {again}

Where are my car keys?

Why can I never find my car keys?

Why am I always late?

Bugger!

Help!

Quick!

Where are those BLOODY CAR KEYS?

WHERE ARE MY........

Oh!

...........thanks!

bye.

Another entry for the Trifecta challenge. {you're allowed three!}

Lost

Part of a Trifecta writing challenge.

The challenge is to write a story called 'Lost' without the word appearing anywhere in the story - and to do it in exactly 33 words

I walk past carefully kept graves of young airmen long dead and into the church.


Inside; an embroidered plaque;


“Through these portals go the bravest of men - always frightened but never afraid.”

Caution - May Contain Nuts.....

Am I nervous? Oh Yes. Terrified more like! I don't know why on earth I've agreed to this. Sitting here behind the table, faced with all these complete strangers and waiting for my introduction, I feel almost physically sick. No one who knows me can believe I've agreed to this and more than a few have almost wet themselves laughing. Yet here I am, nervous as a kitten, stomach tied in knots and feeling like I'm just about to lose my non-existent lunch. I must be nuts!  I didn’t think for a second I'd start out this way when I began looking for an outlet for my writing.

I’d been writing for a couple of years by then, blogging mostly but also sending a few bits and pieces in to papers and magazines in the hope of getting something published. I’d joined a writing group too in the hope that I could improve my skill and perhaps make some contacts along the way. I subscribed to a couple of writing oriented magazines and used them to follow up on articles on improving chances to get published and check out the adverts for writing opportunities. It seemed hopeless – most of the adverts looking for writers expected you to pay them to publish your work and the others wanted everything for free. No-one wants to pay for anything these days it seems.

And then I found some adverts looking for writers to help others; give a few talks on process; hold a few workshops and be available to check and feedback constructively on work submitted. Best of all there was a fee for your efforts and for a lucky one here and there a paid position for a period of time of intensive work. I began to see a rare advert or two for writers in residence too. One of these was working in prisons helping develop communication skills and thinking process; keeping prisoners in touch with their kids through the writing of stories; helping set up an in-house newsletter.

Although I tried I never got anywhere; the competition for these rarest of opportunities was intense even where fees were negligible; people desperate to get something that could be useful to build a credible CV. Weeks and months passed by with nothing.

Then.

  

Wanted:

WRITER IN RESIDENCE


A writer in residence is saught to deliver lectures, workshops and demonstrations to groups and individuals in a holiday environment at our establishments here in the UK and in Spain. An open minded, creative and flexible attitude is required to ensure this experience delivers to our members interested in developing their writing and communication skills in a fun and relaxed manner.

Roll on three months and here I am: sweating; mouth dry; heart palpitating. I wait for the society chairman to finish his speech and introduce me. A new wave of anxiety and nausea washes over me as I look at the lectern I had requested. Somehow I thought I would be more comfortable speaking from behind a lectern but now as I look at it's clear, gleaming perspex under the auditorium lights, I know that's not going to work. What was I thinking? Bugger! I look left and right along the table for an exit but just the sight of the other committee members drives the thought from my mind and my head snaps back to looking down at the notes in front of me on the table.

 God!

I can't even look at the audience! I try to get a grip on my emotions while the voice of the chairman drones on. I take a sip from the glass of water beside me, close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing, silently but desperately telling myself   "Calm. Quiet. Peace. Calm. Quiet. Peace."  as I do. I become aware that the chairman is drawing to a close. Too late now, there's nothing I can do. I have to make the best of this. Who knows, it might be the break I'm looking for after all. Suddenly, I'm aware of applause. I open my eyes and see the chairman at the front of the stage, half turned towards me, his arm outstretched in a welcoming gesture. I swallow and take another sip of water. I gather my notes and stand up, pushing the chair back with my legs as I do. I hold my notes demurely in front of me and move out from behind the safety of the table and walk the few paces to the lectern where I put them reluctantly down and take one last deep, calming breath while I wait for the applause to peter out. I hope I don't look as terrified as I feel.

There is silence. I swallow -hard.

"Mr Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen of the committee. Ladies and Gentlemen.

Three months ago it would never have crossed my mind that I would be standing here today thanking anyone for the 'opportunity' of becoming the first writer in residence for the UK Society of Naturists.

Or that I'd be doing it in the nude……"

See you later.

(By the way – this is a work of fiction!!! - honest)

Listening to this;