Sea aside

Coast;

climbed

rocks like toast.

Re:collection

I found a stack of sketches, all near identical, each figure having taken mere moments to translate. I like the messiness of the whole thing. All of it. Everything. Life. Don't tidy me; don't edit me into conformity and I can be deliciously succinct.

Give me an old body any day

with breasts comfy as cats, skin

that wants to touch itself.

Young bodies are regular, angular or thin,

each appendage trying to leap,

perpendicular, as far away from its host; each

bump a fleshy beast as obstructive,

as appealing, as short-shelved as a peach.

Not long to go now until Nuala Ní Chonchúir touches down, on the first of September, to talk about her ravishing book of short fiction, Nude. And now I want to congratulate her on her genius for choosing a title that would make headlines this week for being in a tug of war between two celebrities - what great publicity! - And she isn't even married to Henry DeTamble!

I'm still averaging a short story a day, too. Got that collection collected! Now, what to do with it?

It could be mist

When I read one of the stories in Nude I thought of this pastel sketch and smiled. I like it because the colours are soft, much as pastels and bottoms should be, I think.

It's time for another nude: not the Nude, that's coming up on the first of September - I'm priming my canvas as I type (I should add ambidextrousness to my list of talents, except that it's made up and I'm being daft) - this nude is ten years old and doesn't look a day over fifty!

She's lovely and blurry and fuzzled at the edges: like mist - a pastel mist.

All this getting ready to interview Nuala Ní Chonchúir has been extremely beneficial to my creativity. I've written five short stories over the last seven days ( I can't call it a week because it didn't begin on a Monday, nor end on Sunday), and they're all going in my almost complete collection. I like to imagine I have a publishing deal and all the trimmings, there's no point being a pessimist is there? Or a pastelmist. Perhaps I am ever so slightly losing the plot, but it will all come out in the wash. Speaking of...I'd better get these brushes washed!

Worn art

I chose this pastel sketch because I gave the sitter a big body and a leetle head, and because the style and colours make me think of some of Gauguin's work.

I've been having a bit of a clear out, preparing my studio for when Nuala Ní Chonchúir visits on September 1st, to start her virtual book tour, here!

I'm going to be interviewing her about her latest book of short fiction, Nude. I have my copy, which I read whilst pushing the buggy to school, and I cannot praise it enough.

You may remember I was asked to think up three questions to ask Nuala. Me being the generous soul that I am, offered one of you lucky bloggers a chance to ask a question yourselves. Well, I can say I have chosen the question (it was an easy decision, those of you who are regulars will know why) and I am very happy to announce Lori Tiron-Pandit as the other lucky questioner. Hurrah for Lori!

As her prize, Lori will have her blog showcased on this blog after the interview which should hopefully benefit her with some extra blogger traffic.

So watch this space for more updates and, possibly, more nudes - it's amazing what tattered un-masters you find down the far recesses of a dusty old portfolio! I might start painting nudes again - any offers for sitters?

So shall we

It isn't saving lives, is it?

Writing is pretty selfish.

One markets it as an essential tool for understanding society, or a method of ascertaining the human condition but that's being somewhat philosophical.

Can writing save your life, or anyone else's?

The intuitive ones among you may have noticed a touch of melancholy to my tone - yes, I got another rejection. You are a sensitive lot! I've lost count how many negative returns that is from the ten or so queries I sent out but that's because I have dyscalculia and not because I am not counting! However, there are some unaccounted for (um) so it's all still very much to play for. And even if they all come back with no love I will be sending another batch out and going through the same process all over again. I am nothing if not tenacious!

Life would be simpler if I could be happy doing some other job. All I can do is make stuff: of words, of paint, of stuff. You make of me what you like.

Water your thoughts

A piece of short fiction of mine has just been published here. It's the one I wrote especially for the submission, and I feel rather nervous and proud all at the same time. I had to re-read it a few times to check I hadn't let any mistakes slip through or something equally as hideous (do tell me if you see any, I'm a shocker for typing gibberish under stress/excitement/worry!)

Anyhow, I think I'll include it in the collection I've been working on for the past year. I have twenty-one pieces of short fiction included in this, but I've just decided that half of them can go towards a second collection, having changed my overall theme, so I have about as many to write again for each. And I'm really enjoying writing them. I have a lot of other, very random, pieces to do something with at some point, too.

Of all the short fiction I've written, there are only a handful which have been anything I could term hard work. Mostly they just pop into my head and I go with them. Of course I change and edit them afterwards, and some end up nothing like how they began, but some simply appear finished; as this one did. And I like those the best.

Let me know what you think of the story!

Family are rare

Inspiration comes in all forms...

What You Are

Your eyes; familiar denim. We were well
acquainted long before your birth. Like mine
but brighter, you're a star. I crave your smell,
rice pudding skin, topped off with gold. A fine
floss, candied honey tangles. Pillar-box
grins, milk-teeth smiles and belly laughs consume
my heart. Mischievous mouse and cunning fox
I've called you. Making mess in every room,
then hiding. Marmite fingers up the walls,
and chocolate melts into the carpet. Still,
it's fun to see you beam, aglow with all
you've done, my happy lantern. Giggles fill
our house, which you've turned into home. How do
I count the ways you keep me loving you?

...and it never gets tidier...

A Spotted Robe

You wore when you were three
and still do sometimes at seven
rests across the arm of the settee

kept company by other laundry,
shirts and trousers, not all yours,
ironing, pending, work in progress,
a life captured in a list of chores.

...but it keeps on growing!

(I wrote the sonnet when I was being 'taught' to write poetry - what's that all about, eh? I wrote the second poem last year. Now I've thrown out all the teaching, I can start on the Housekeeping.)