So many phantoms have there been,
Flitting through my waking dreams.
Spectres long forgotten stand,
Reaching out their ice cold hands.
Ghosts with nails sharp,
Tear the sinews of my heart.
Then with gaze cold,
Feast upon my immortal soul.
I will be taking a break from writing from 6-11 July. Well I won’t be posting here. My brain will, however still be turning over ideas regarding stories and poems for it is, in my experience impossible for the author to wholly switch off even when on holiday. I may post again prior to 6 July but, failing that I look forward to seeing you all on or around 11 July.
Kevin
The candles shone on the girl’s long black hair, which cascaded over her slim bare shoulders. Angela had chosen the expensive strapless dress with great care, after all it isn’t often that a young woman is invited out to dinner in what is, by many considered to be the capital’s top restaurant and with one of London’s leading celebrities to boot.
“Thank you for the meal”, she said fixing her soft brown eyes on those of her companion, “the food was wonderful”.
Angela’s companion heard not a word, for he was engrossed in the conversation of the couple seated on the adjacent table.
“Now how could I use that exchange without being sued?” the writer mused.
—
The sunlight danced on the becalmed sea. Children’s laughter, including that of her own 2 kids, Molly and John, reached Jessica where she sat on the beach towel.
“Mummy, mummy, play with me”, said Molly, tugging at Jessica’s hand. So intent on her musings had Jessica been that she had failed to notice the approach of her daughter.
“Mummy’s busy dear” Jessica said returning to her writing.
“The sunlight danced upon the becalmed sea. The excited squeals of children playing happily in the waves reached the girl as she lay on her beach towel”, Jessica wrote.
Wind chimes.
A clock measuring time.
Summer breeze from open door.
The heart is at peace, who can ask for more?
Oft he sought the perfect rose,
Enjoyed the flower where it grows.
Soon he found the blooms did pall,,
His dalliances they turn to gall.
Still he after pleasure strove,
Clutched noisome blossoms to his nose.
Thorns they speared him through the heart,
Still his desire did not depart.
They found him lying on a bed cold,
In his hand a fading rose.
Summer ball
Scented park at evenfall
Owl’s haunting call
Girl’s teasing words
Perhaps misheard
Oh vanity, how absurd!
The wise old owl scowled,
At the lone grey wolf who howled,
As she prowled,
Intent on deeds most foul,
Under the rising moon.
Said the owl, “Must you howl,
In a manner quite so foul?
You cause my head to ache,
Go and jump in yonder lake.
Said the wolf, “Make no mistake,
It is getting late,
The lake is freezing cold,
And I am not so bold”.
A post in which L. L. Barkat argues that it is time for writers to stop blogging, (http://janefriedman.com/2013/03/15/its-time-for-many-experienced-writers-to-stop-blogging/). As an author with a blog and someone who blogs often, I don’t agree with Barkat’s perspective. Her views do, however deserve a hearing.
Barkat’s main argument is that most blogs receive comparatively few views so writers would be better spending their time (that not reserved for writing books) composing articles for sites with a big audience. Writing articles for big name sites will, in Barkat’s view gain more exposure for the writer than blogging via a personal blog.
I relish the connection my blog, newauthoronline.com provides between mmy followers and I. Such a connection can not exist where one writes exclusively for big name sites where there exists no direct link between the writer and their audience. There is, however no reason why a writer or any other blogger can not utilise their own personal site while also writing for websites with a following running into the hundreds of thousands (assuming one is lucky enough to be afforded the opportunity to contribute to such sites)! Barkat is correct that the writer needs to keep a watchful eye on their blogging to ensure it doesn’t eat up time which could be devoted to writing books.
I have no intention of ceasing my meanderings on this blog so don’t crack open the champagne just yet …!
“Cecil Graham: What is a cynic?
Lord Darlington: A man who knows the price of everything, and the value of nothing.
Cecil Graham: And a sentimentalist, my dear Darlington, is a man who sees an absurd value in everything and doesn’t know the market price of any single
thing.”
(Oscar Wilde. Lady Windermere’s Fan).
According to the above, I am a sentimentalist for I had no idea what price to attach to my book, “Dalliance; A Collection Of Poetry And Prose”. Indeed I must confess to finding the attaching of monetary value to artistic creations rather distasteful. For me literature and art more generally possesses a value in and of itself which can not be reduced to a matter of pounds, shillings and pence. Food feeds the stomach while art nourishes the soul. While the former is vital to the survival of the species, once food is eaten that is an end of the matter while, with art exposure to it continues to feed the spirit long after the creation in question has vanished from view. Poems I read as a boy continue to resonate with me today while countless meals are long since forgotten. Of course one may remember a dinner for the excellent companionship of friends but only on rare occasions will the food consumed figure in one’s recollections.
Having said all that, I do, of course accept that man does not exist by consuming fresh air alone. Authors must earn (and deserve to earn) a crust. Consequently it is necessary for me and other authors to attach monetary value to our creations. In the case of “Dalliance” I discussed the matter of price with several colleagues and friends who had read the book. None where of much help. One colleague suggested a price range of between £8 to £20. Given that “Dalliance” runs to 68 pages I felt that £20 was much to high. Eventually I consulted the man who owns my local bookshop, Bookseller Crow. He suggested a price of £7.99 which we agreed upon. This will cover the cost of producing “Dalliance” and, I hope allow both myself and the good purveyor of books to earn a crust.
In conclusion, books do possess an inherent value which can not be translated into purely monetary terms. However in the real world it is necessary (as with other artistic creations) to assign a price to them. However, deep in my soul I feel that it is sacreligious to place a financial value on Keats “Ode to A Nightingale” or Arnold’s “Dover Beach”.
Many thanks to Victo Dolore for the below guest post. If you haven’t already checked out Victo’s blog please do so. She writes with humanity and humour about the medical world and so much more, (https://doctorly.wordpress.com/).
—
The Guest
The headmaster was standing at the back of the room in his brown suit and brown tie, his arms crossed somberly across his chest. He was a serious man who
never joked, never smiled.
I was nervous just looking at him.
It was my second grade class and it was the end of the school year. My teacher, Ms. White, held a sheaf of those wide ruled tan colored notebook papers
stapled together in her hands, turning each page slowly as she read from the podium at the front of the class.
They were my papers.
It was my story.
I stole another glance around the room. My classmates watched her with rapt attention, eyes growing wider. They were there in the story, I could see it!
There were dwarves and a wizard and a cave filled with treasure and scary monsters that clung to the dark shadows. I knew the secret, though. It was going
to end up with good winning out over evil. Just wait, I smiled to myself.
As she read the last words there was silence. More silence. My heart stood still as the seconds ticked by. Then… everyone clapped, even the somber, frightening
man at the back of the class.
He smiled at me!
I had never been recognized by anyone as being good at anything to that point. My handwriting was always awful. I read aloud too fast. My clothes were
old, worn hand-me-downs. Mathematics was a mystery to me. I was quiet as a mouse, never speaking, always invisible.
And so from that day forward I wrote every chance I could get.
I will never win any literary award. I will never have a huge audience. But when I put pen to paper I find my voice. The magic weaves its way through my
fingers, taking over…
Thus began my love affair with words.
