Are You a Quirky Tapestry?

I get carried away...often.  Banish images of a damsel in the arms of a white knight.  I’m talking about excitement, enthusiasm, joie de vivre!  It can take a while.  Many a party have I attended and spent mindless hours listening to talk of surveying contracts, annual report and accounts, print runs and the like (such is my diverse past employment).  However, now and again something crops up and ‘BANG!’  My ears prick up, like a young filly breathless for the gun at the racecourse, and I’m off.  Impressionism, foreign languages, feline welfare, Anglo-Saxons, short crust pastry, aromatherapy and other varied topics of which I am a Jack of.

In Denial

I think it is safe for me to say I don’t have enough books.  I have a LOT of books, but I don’t have anywhere near enough of them.  I have at least eight on my Yuletide gift list and am certain to see some more very soon.

Superlative Serendipity

Why is it, the weather always follows my writing?  No matter where I am in a particular project, no matter what season a scene is set in which I am knee deep redrafting, the weather always manages to match my writing.

Gift or Curse?

I am, therefore I write.

No, you’re not suffering from delusions; no I have not inverted my phrase by accident.  Since I penned my first words I have always written for the amusement of others.  Be it on cards to family or in journals and diaries, a creative bent has gripped me with each flurry of the ‘stilo’.  I recall with fondness my first full length story, aged eight: the fully illustrated ‘Mittens the Kitten’.  It’s more than likely in a large cardboard box in my parents’ loft, which is where my other creations were until recently unearthed to make way for loft insulation.

Moon

Darkness, bleeding into the moon and evaporating her light,

Ostri the Ceorl - part four

Urtha shone inside with happiness that she had made greeting with the stranger and was so far unharmed.  Slowly, she relented and knew she would have to give herself up.  A deep sigh left her, gaze falling to the floor as she raised a pair of hands, the insides of her wrists uppermost, and waited to be tied.

“Hwat means you?” Ostri asked, his voice remaining a whisper.

Ostri the Ceorl - part three

Ostri paused, the tip of Death Giver balancing on the mouth of its scabbard.  It was not a Saxon name.  He scanned her briefly from head to toe, absorbing all he could about her from sight alone.  She wore the simple garb of a thrall, a slave.  No adornments hung from her clothes, no valuables to give her status; she had no Seax or belt, no shoes.  A frown pressed down on his brow as he suspected she might also be a Danish woman, perhaps sent in as an innocent decoy, to spy.  Did they think the Saxons stupid?  Did they not consider they had the wisdom to see through their plot?  Ostri would as easily kill a woman as a man, if that woman had come as an act of war.  As he made a quick examination of the forest, checking for Danes hiding in the undergrowth, he wondered, ‘where has she come from?’

Ostri the Ceorl - part two

Laid between the protruding roots of the large tree sat a figure in pale linens.  Face obscured by long, golden hair woven into tangles by sweat and dew, knees bent, the creature appeared almost to have grown out of the ground on which she sat so ungainly.  Ostri allowed Death Giver to slide down the tree, scraping a line in the moss as the blade descended.  Ordinarily he would have sheathed his sword by now, realising he had no further need of it, but he was hypnotised by the crumpled intruder to their camp.

Ostri the Ceorl

Mist curled through the ferns at Ostri’s feet as he watched a doe nuzzling the gnarled roots of a nearby tree for its bark.  She hadn’t seen him, for he stood so still.  Ostri wondered, himself, whether he would be able to move when the time arose for action.  It had been a long night on constant watch and all he could feel was the weight of his mail shirt, wooden shield and baldric.  ‘Death giver’ sheathed cosily in fleece and hanging on the latter, had not been drawn once.  He ached for its use, his gut wrenching at the thought the enemy would pass him by without so much as a glance, or the tip of a spear.  He wanted combat, burned inside unbearably to pierce the flesh of the accursed Danes.

How I Write

In many a 'How To' manual and elsewhere you are told to first write a synopsis.  Secondly you are advised to start at the beginning.  I do neither of these.

Six Books That Have Shaped Me

Which 6 books would you choose?

Welcome

This is my blog and I'll be adding to it over the coming weeks. In the meantime, thanks for stopping by...