Pond Life

In January this year, we dug a pond. You can see the lovely thing below.

 The idea was to make our backyard more enticing to wildlife. A pond is the way to go, apparently, if you're interested in doing that.
     We laboured over our hole in the ground for many a day. It was cold. It was muddy. It was unattractive.

Just to make it even more unattractive, we added a black plastic liner. I can't remember if this was the original which sprang a leak after a couple of weeks, or the later one which is still bravely holding water. We weighted the liner down with pots and bricks, to prevent it thrashing about in the frequent gales. In the picture above, it's frozen solid.

Here it is a little further along, still looking unlovely. We've covered some of the liner with earth, and added some plants at the further end. They came from my old pond in a pot (which also sprang a leak and will probably have a tree planted in it at some point.) The pond here is brimming full from the winter downpours. At the moment, it is brimming full from the summer downpours. A couple of weeks ago, the sunshine was so liquid, we had to bale the pond out for fear of flooding.

This picture was taken earlier this week. Those tall, pointed leaves in front of the blue periwinkle are yellow flags donated by Karen Bush aka Madwippit. They are excelling at the tall pointy green leaf bit, but have so far declined to flower. But the wild strawberries Karen gave me are flowering and fruiting. You can just see one of their white flowers above the potted rosemary in the foreground.

Here's one where you can actually see the water.

We were promised that if we did the work and made a pond, we would see more wild-life and the promise has been kept. I have seen more birds in the garden this year than in the past sixteen years I've lived here. Previously, they just flew over, even when I hung feeders out.

There is always a wood pigeon. Whatever kind of food is put out, Woodie is in there first. Here he is yearning after the niger seed which isn't intended for him. But we also have a little family of dunnocks, a wren, a robin, blackbirds, bluetits, great tits, starlings and house-sparrows.

A newcomer was spotted the other day: buff-coloured with marked white wing stripes and a darker head. It's suspected of being a chaffinch, but as yet, this is unconfirmed.

I've become very fond of the sparrows. They love the pond. They come down in a swirl, like falling leaves, and land around its edges, where they drink and bathe.

I'm very fond of this brute - 'Touch Me Not With Impunity' and it tells no lies. I was given this by my auntie, who had put on gauntlets and potted it up for me. It spent the winter lying flat in its pot. Then, one spring day, I noticed that all its spiky leaves had lifted themselves up and were pointing at the sky. So I put on armour and planted it against this wall. Since then, I swear it has grown an inch a week and, when the weather warmed up, a inch a day. It is now as tall as I am and you cannot get near it. In Flann O'Brien's The Third Policeman there is a lance with a point so sharp that its end is invisible and it stabs you while you think it is still inches away. Old Touch Me Not is like that. Its flower buds look soft and velvety but touch one and you leap back across the path with your spiked fingers in your mouth. - But we hope that the seeds will attract more birds.

This is the 'wood' at the top of my garden. There is a dogwood, a crab apple, some towering ferns and lots of brambles. And foxgloves.

The marsh-marigold in the pond. There is a large bud on one of the water-lilies but it's taking an age to open.

I end with Woodie, getting stuck into whatever it was that was scattered on the step. He's the only bird who hangs around long enough to be photographed.

     The pond was worth the work. We've had more fun and interest out of it in these past months than almost anything else.

Pubowrimo 3

2, 278 words.
          That's how many I got done in this week's pubowrimo.
          First, I went off to a garden centre, to buy some in-the-green snowdrops. And some winter aconite and a hellebore, because they were there.
          The hellebore is beautiful, and reminds me of my mother. She always called it 'a Christmas rose.'

Christmas Rose

          I love the aconite. It's bright yellow, and smells of honey.
          And of course I love snowdrops. That goes without saying.

Wafts of honey scent...

          I also bought a large - a very large - plastic pot, because I caught Diarmuid Gavin on TV, making a 'container water-garden' to attract insects to the garden by adding another eco-system, in miniature. I loved the idea. And since it seems fairly simple and inexpensive, I'm set on doing it. So I've got the pot. The plants will have to wait until later, I think, until water stops turning to stone in my back-yard. I know the water plants are hardy - even the water-lily, it seems, tough as old boots - but they'll have enough trouble surviving anywhere near me without adding sub-zero temperatures to their lot.
          Anyway, afterwards, I met up with my friend, and we went to the pub, bought cider and settled in - in the corner by the fire this time.
          I had a quite tricky part to write, where a character has been set up by another, so it seems that he's made a serious suicide attempt. This results in him being sectioned under the Mental Health Act and admitted to a secure ward. I had no idea how to tackle this.
          But as soon as I walked through the door of the pub, ideas started to pop. It's all becoming a bit Pavlovian. Pub = write.
          Two thousand, two hundred and seventy-eight words. And I'm getting some ideas for the next part too. The gloves are coming off. The Bad Girl is baring her teeth and becoming frankly murderous - and the object of her homicidal intentions is a character uncomfortably like my beloved auntie. I didn't realise I was basing this character on Beloved Auntie until she was firmly established and it was too late. It's a little inhibiting. Has anyone else found themselves authorially threatening the life of a favourite relative?
          My friend reports that he managed another solid 700 words - and he's pleased because he didn't think he'd be able to write anything this week. He also confesses to two unofficial pubowrimos at home - domestowrimos, I suppose. With tea instead of cider. He's trying to steal a march on me. He did another 700-ish words in each stint.
          Ha! I'm still ahead.
          Not that it's at all competitive, of course.
          The secret, I think, is a free-flowing, scribbly pen that flows easily over the paper, without needing any pressure. The writing is sometimes hard to decipher when you come to type it up, but you can't half cover the pages.

I Talk to Karen King...

Recently my friend, the writer Karen King, interviewed me for her blog.

Karen King

 
Karen: What was the first thing you had published?

          Sue: The first book I completed: The Devil’s Piper. I wrote it when I was fifteen, typed it on an ancient iron typewriter, and illustrated it myself, in biro pen.(Not a good idea or a success.)

     One of A M Heath’s agents, Osyth Leeston, took me on — and

The Devil's Piper by Susan Price

sent the book to Phyllis Hunt, who was then children’s editor for Faber — and a wonderful editor. Phyllis said she would publish the book if I could rewrite it to the standard she required. She sent me a ten page letter of comments on why the book didn’t work as well as it could, and how it could be improved.

     Looking back at this from over forty years on, I’m incredulous. I don’t think this would happen today. Publishers in those days took more care of their eco-system — they knew they had to be growing authors up to replace those they were going to lose. And, of course, both Osyth and Phyllis were extraordinarily kind and encouraging to me. Phyllis once said that she thought she had ‘brought me up’ as a writer — and I wouldn’t argue with that. 

     I’ve no doubt there are people just as kind in publishing today, but I don’t think they would have the time or the leeway to help a novice along as I was helped. — Or perhaps I’m completely wrong, and just indulging in a senior moment of ‘things were better in those days?’ If so, please let me know. 

Karen: What do you like writing most? 

          Sue: Something that sells millions, gets turned into a film and makes me rich! 

     It’s a question I find hard to answer seriously. One of the comments made early in my career by my fairy godmothers, Phyllis and Osyth, was that I wrote a lot of different things, and was hard to categorise. I’ve written ‘kitchen-sink’, historicals, full-on fantasy, folkloric retellings, science-fiction, short stories, ghost stories… I’ve written for pretty much every age-group too, from babies to adults. As you can see, on my Amazon page.
 
      And the book I’m working on now is different again: set in the present day, with a truly evil, heartless main character who enjoys tormenting other people and looks on murder as business.
I enjoy writing it all. 

Karen: What piece of writing/work are you most proud of? 

          Sue: The Ghost World Trilogy, certainly. The first one, The Ghost Drum, won the Carnegie Medal. That was a surprise — but as soon as I finished the book, I knew it was the best thing I’d ever written.
          I went on thinking that until I turned all three into e-books (since they’d been allowed to go out of print, and no publisher would reprint them.) This meant scanning them into my computer and re-reading and proofing them all over again. While doing this, I came to the conclusion that the second book, Ghost Song, and the third book, Ghost Dance, were both, in their ways, better than the first.
     The books don’t form a classical trilogy, with each book

Ghost Song by Susan Price

following on from the one before. In fact, Ghost Song is a prequel to Ghost Drum, and is, I think, more lyrical. Then Ghost Dance is a stand-alone book, though set in the same world. It’s much more sinister than the first two, and has a more complicated plot.
I’ve written a fourth book in the series, Ghost Spell, which I may bring out as an ebook one day.
     I recently turned the first two, Drum and Song, into paperbacks, available through Amazon. People who’d read the books when young kept asking me where they could buy paper copies. I’m quite proud that this book is now selling to a second, even third generation!

          You can find the e-books here.
           And the paperback editions here.


      But I’m also quite proud of my Sterkarm books — The Sterkarm Handshake, A Sterkarm Kiss and, soon, I hope, A Sterkarm Embrace. They have probably been the most successful of my books. Recently, I was in a school giving a talk in the library. The talk ended, the class left — but their young teacher doubled back, stuck her head round the door and said, ‘I didn’t realise it was you, but I just want to tell you that when I was 13, Sterkarm Handshake was my favourite book.’

The Sterkarm Handshake by Susan Price

     Maybe this is why:— Mary Hoffman, the Book Maven, awarded my Sterkarm hero the Number 2 spot in her ‘Ten Hottest Teen Heroes.’ 

     Per Sterkarm in The Sterkarm Handshake by Susan Price. It’s pronounced “stark-arm” and is the name of a family of 16th century border bandits. Per is the only and most beloved son, whose pretty face gets him the nickname of “the May” or maid. But he’s a useful man in a battle, a lusty lover and one who inspires devotion in everyone from his father, to his hounds, to the 21st century time-traveller Andrea. 

         The books are a mixture of science-fiction and history, with the 16th Century Sterkarms clashing violently with the 21st Century time-travelling ‘Elves.’
          The Sterkarms are on their third film option at the moment, and I’m just hoping they’ll gallop home with it this time. I’m also hoping that soon I’ll be able to tell people that the first two have been republished, along with the third.

Karen: What’s your favourite poem? 

          Sue: That’s a tough one. Robert Graves said that you know poetry when you read it because it makes your hair stand on end – and the first time I read Shelley's Ozymandias, I certainly felt my hair rise. I love Marvell’s To His Coy Mistress too — possibly the greatest knicker-dropper of all time!
     Despite being an atheist, I love U A Fanthorpe’s religious poems, particularly Joseph. And I’ve loved the old Border Ballads since I was a teenager — all human passion and crime is there: every kind of ‘cide — patri, matri, infanti, fratri. Some wonderful phrases too, as when Edward’s mother asks him what — since he’s determined to ‘set his foot in a bottomless boat’ — does he leave to her? He answers: The World’s room/ To beg your bread/ For all the lies you told to me.’ 

Karen: What do you like to do to relax? 

          Sue: Read! — And watch telly. And walk over the hills. I like shooting with my longbow — though only at targets! My partner and I love island-hopping by Cally-Mac ferries. Earlier this year we got up at 3am and drove madly north for 8 hours to catch the noon CallyMac from Oban to Barra in the Outer Hebrides. We’re planning to go to Barra again, but this time make our way up the Hebrides, via ferry and causeway. My partner’s an ex-Met-Office weather observer, and very good at avoiding the worst weather. 

Karen: That must come in handy! - What do you like to read? 

          Sue: All sorts. I loved the Game of Thrones series. I only meant to pass the time by looking into the Amazon sample of A Song Of Ice and Fire, but was hooked and read all seven without a break. Then watched the TV version (very good, but the books were better.)
I love Minette Walters and Sarah Waters. I love legends and mythology. I was stunned by Mantel’s books about Cromwell – so good - and I read and re-read Terry Pratchett all the time. 

          Thanks for talking, Karen!
           Karen's website and blog, where she talks to many other writers, can be found here.
          You can read about her activities as Patron of Reading to Edward Oldcorn College in Worcester, all about her books. She offers teaching in Creative Writing too.

Very Far From Where You Are Now...

The mountain...

Far, very far, from where you are now, there stands a mountain at the end of the earth.

The mountain is three miles high, three miles wide and three miles deep.

It is made all of adamantine diamond, the hardest thing that is.

Once, and once only in every thousand years, there comes to the diamond mountain a little bird, a tiny bird, a bird no bigger than the fingernail on your littlest finger.

A tiny bird...

The tiny bird, once in every thousand years, lights on the diamond mountain and sharpens its beak with three strops - One! Two! Three!

And when this tiny bird, which is no bigger than the nail on your littlest finger, and which comes to the mountain only once in every thousand years, when this little bird, with sharpening of its beak, has ground the diamond mountain, which is three miles high, three miles wide, and three miles deep...

When, with three strokes of its tiny bill, once in every thousand years, this little bird has ground the adamantine mountain all, all away...

Has ground it to the finest, finest dust...

And when the last grain of diamond dust has blown away on the wind, and there is not one grain left of the mountain...

Then, and only then, will be ended the first eye-blink of Eternity.

Eternity

I've known this for ages, but remembered it the other night when we were in a folk club. I thought it was a suitably fairy-tale, Christmassy thing to post at this time of year.

It's a fragment from the Brothers Grimm - though this is my version, retold from memory and no doubt changed.

A Peek Into My Work Room

          I've been working on the third book in the Sterkarm series, after The Sterkarm Handshake and A Sterkarm Kiss. In fact, I've been working on it for the past three years, amongst other things.
          Most of that work has been done on my laptop, in the corner of my sofa - partly because that suited me and partly because what I call 'my office' upstairs was in such a mess I could hardly get in the door.
          Housework has never been a priority for me - and then when both my parents were ill a few years ago, a lot of other things fell by the wayside. And since they died, a lot of things haven't seemed worth bothering about. The 'office' became a place to stuff oddments into and close the door.
          But the work on Sterkarm 3 is becoming increasingly serious. I felt the need of somewhere I could go that was away from my usual sofa-corner, a new place that would send my brain the signal, 'Time to work.'
          Like many other writers, I've often found it productive to get out of the house altogether, and go and work in a library, pub or cafe. I spent a lot of time trying to think of somewhere. The library was out, because personally, I find the grim silence in libraries distracting! I prefer somewhere with a bit of talk and coming and going. But the trouble with pubs and cafes is that you have to keep buying food and drink as 'rent'. This is perfectly reasonable - if I was trying to make a living from running a cafe, I wouldn't want the place full of free-loading writers either. But reasonable as it is, I still can't afford it.
          So I decided to clear my office of junk, generally tidy up, and see if it could serve as my change of scene. For the past week it's been working well. And I thought I should commemorate the tidy office, because it probably won't stay that way for very long.

           It may not seem remarkable to you, but those friends and relatives who have been allowed into the place over the past few years will be staggering with shock at this photo. There are places where you can put things down!
          I was too ashamed to publish a 'before' shot, but just imagine the desk and chair piled with archaelogical layers of papers, cds, books... And the floor littered with the pages of books ripped apart to make e-books.
          I had a lot of photos, cards and such that I wanted to display: and decided to tack them to the back wall instead of having them cluttering shelves and falling off in drifts.

           That male nude in the centre is a birthday card sent to me by my Mom and Dad. Obviously, that's the only reason it's up there - for sentimental reasons. Alongside it is the crashing racing-car card sent to me by my brother when I was learning to drive: 'Mirror - signal - manouvre - Oh !&%?!!' It still makes me laugh.
           Here's my own ghost-drum on its shelf, with its antler hammer, so I can summon the spirits - or Blott - when I need them.

 

          Here's a corner of one bookshelf -

 

          But now I have to get back to work, so I will hand you over to Blott...

          Weather Report: Friday 18th. Here, on top of the Black Country Plateau, it has been snowing gently but persistently all day. Kerbs have vanished, steps have become slopes, and my car is one big white mound. Don't think I'll be seeing anyone this weekend. Plenty of time to work!

              

Defending The Villain

          I’ve been reading reviews of my book, The Sterkarm Handshake on Goodreads.  Most of them are good – four and five star.  People say how much they enjoyed the book, and I heartily thank people for taking the time and trouble to post a review – even though they may have done it for fellow readers rather than me.

          However, I was struck by how many of the reviews – even the positive ones – took issue with the character of my villain, the Company Executive Officer, James Windsor.

          He’s called a ‘one-dimensional character’ and ‘a pantomime villain’.  He even, commenters say, in shocked tones, makes fun of the heroine’s size.

          This puzzles me.  Early reviews of the book said much the same thing; and here are later readers saying it.  Could I have got it so wrong?

          I don't think I did.

          Now I’m fully aware that any writer arguing against adverse comments is going to look like an egoist who can’t take criticism.

          But I’m going to do it anyway.  I’ve been publishing since I was 16.  I’ve been taking criticism, constructive and destructive, on the chin for the whole of my adult life.

          I don’t quarrel with those who say that the book is too violent, or that the heroine is irritating, or even that it’s boring.  I’ve said the same things of books by other writers, even of books by writers whose other works I’ve loved, so I’m neither surprised nor dismayed that some people dislike some of my books.  I had my reasons for writing it the way I did; but other people would have made different choices, and dislike those I made. Fair enough.

         The comments on James Windsor puzzle me, though.  When I write, I obviously create scenes, plots and characters that seem, to me, convincing – since if they don’t convince me, it’s foolish to hope they’ll convince readers.  I characterised Windsor as I did because it’s my observation that there are people like him abroad in this unhappy world.  Not everyone, not even every CEO – but some.

          I’m quite glad to think that so many of my readers seem never to have met a James Windsor, but I’m puzzled too.  They’ve never met a bully?  Really?

          And yet bullying at work is commonplace.  (Nor is it new: I was talking about this with my aunt, and she told me that she left her first job, 64 years ago, because her boss bullied her so much.)

          James Windsor has financial power, and power over employees, and he enjoys using it.  He gets a kick when people have no choice but to obey him.  It makes him feel better about himself – why wouldn’t it?  It proves his success as much as his car, his home, his expensive suits.

          That he’s one-dimensional may be true to the extent that, in the books, we see him only with subordinates – or people he thinks should be his subordinates, such as the Sterkarms.  (But he has no hold over the Sterkarms, and they don’t give a spit for him.)

          I also think it’s fair to say that Windsor is good at his job, intelligent, witty and, quite often, right.  He makes the mistake made by many ‘civilised’ men before him, of underestimating the ‘uncivilised’, but he’s far from stupid.  He’s just not benevolent.  Take a look round the world and you’ll see plenty of intelligent but malevolent people.

          With his equals or superiors Windsor would be charming – well-mannered, witty, friendly, considerate.  With equals, he has a reputation to sustain, and from superiors he has something to gain.  I’m told that my great-grandfather was like this.  Among workmates and pub-friends, towards strangers and such superiors as policemen and bosses, he was ‘a great laugh’: generous, witty, charming.

          At home, he made no effort to charm. He terrorised his wife and children, kicking one of his sons senseless for defending a sister, and deafening a daughter by hitting her on the ear with a seven-pound lump hammer.  (He was a blacksmith, and ordered his daughter to hold a chisel while he hit it with said hammer.  She annoyed him by flinching, and he hit her with what he had to hand – the hammer.)  But that night, in the pub, he was ‘a great laugh’.  Does this seem OTT, too melodramatic? - But it's true, and very similar scenes are being enacted on the day you read this, somewhere near you.

          A friend in publishing once told me of a writer she was friendly with.  She’d known him for years and they’d always got on well when they met at launches and lunches.  Then, due to the last recession but one, my friend was given notice.  Shortly after, she met the writer again.  They hugged and kissed, and he asked for her news.

          She said she’d lost her job, and felt rather depressed, since she couldn’t imagine finding another, given her age and the state of the industry.

          The writer replied, “Oh, you’re no use to me any more, then, are you?” – turned his back and walked away, leaving her gobsmacked and speechless.

          Very James Windsor. He, the writer, and my great-grandfather were narcissists.  They aren't in short supply, and they aren't always serial-killers.  I think they're quite often in positions of authority, both because they want to be, and because their unswerving self-interest helps them to get there.

          As for Windsor’s insulting remarks to my hefty heroine – have my readers really not met people like this?  Really?

          While writing Handshake, I met a woman who worked for an executive, and asked her about her job and boss.  She told me, rolling her eyes, that he always addressed her as ‘Gorgeous,’ even calling her this in front of others.

Now, this would be patronising and offensive enough, but it went further.  My informant, though professionally impressive and very well groomed, was fully aware that not many would seriously call her ‘gorgeous’.  Hence the rolling eyes.  Every time he called her that, especially in front of others, it was a put-down.

          But how could she complain?  She had a well paid job which otherwise suited her well, which she might lose if she complained.  Even if you don’t mind losing your job, how can you complain that your boss calls you ‘gorgeous’?  But she and everyone who heard it knew that it was a sneer.

          Why did her boss sneer at her on a daily basis?  Because he could.  He enjoyed it.

          It was this meeting which nerved me to have Windsor speak to Andrea as he does.  At one point he gives her expensive chocolates saying, “I’m sure you’ll know what to do with them.”

          Andrea reflects that Windsor’s gifts are payment for the right to insult people.  This is the politics of gift-giving.  At its most benign, it’s an affirmation of friendship – at its less benign, it’s manipulative power-play.  It’s hard to quarrel with someone who gives you expensive gifts – and some use that to get away with bad behaviour.

          It’s these experiences, and my own, which lie behind James Windsor.  I don’t think, unfortunately, that he’s unrealistic or pantomimic at all.

          But I’d be interested to hear your thoughts.  I will take them on the chin.

WHY ARE YOU A WRITER?

Me (seated) shortly before deciding on writing career

          A student recently asked me, “Why are you a writer?”  And since writing’s not secure or lucrative, why am I still?

          There isn’t one simple answer.

          It was an early decision.  My aunt tells me that she remembers me marching up to her and my grandmother and firmly announcing that I intended to be a writer – at four years old.  This surprises me because I thought I’d decided much, much later in life - at seven.  But, whichever, I was unwavering thereafter

          But why did an infant want to be a writer?  I used to think it was due simply to my family’s immense respect for books and writers.  My mother almost revered books, and minded us scribbling on the wallpaper far less than drawing in a book. So, in our house, saying you wanted to be a writer was sure to win approval.

          These days, I think Nature and Nurture are almost equal in influence, and my family were great story-tellers.  Throughout my childhood I heard stories of my mother’s childhood: of how one hot-tempered auntie punched her fist through a glass pane, of an uncle was taken to hospital in a wheelbarrow, of the cat which could open the door when my mother couldn’t.

My Grandmother Price

          My father countered with tales of my grandfather’s battle with a mouse called Mickey Duff, of how my great-grandfather served time for GBH – and how my Grandmother won a national newspaper’s story-writing competition.  Nearly fifty years later, I won £50 the same way.

          Telling stories was what you did.  Anything that happened, you polished into a story, with dramatic pauses, twists, punch-lines.  Writing stories down was a natural progression.

          And then, writing is acting for ugly people and action for coach-potatoes, which suits me perfectly.  I can take on whatever appearance I fancy, in whatever century, change sex, change species, even become an extra-terrestrial.  I can sail Viking ships, ride with reivers, dig a canal, emigrate to Mars – all without leaving my sofa and laptop.  As the student said, “How cool is that?”

          Lastly, writing never becomes boring.  Difficult, frustrating, head-nipping – yes.  Boring, no.  I once knew a novice writer who wrote a play for a University production.  It was well-received and the novice decided to write another for the following year.  After several months, with head severely nipped, she cried out, “It doesn’t get easier, does it?”

          She’d thought it would, you see.  Everything else she’d tried had been easier the second time, and easier still the third.  Obviously, writing would be the same.  After all, she knew how to do it now, right?

The Sterkarm Handshake

          No art – be it writing, painting, music, dancing, or even Fuzzy Mathematics – ever gets easier.  You don’t have to be Shakespeare or Beethoven for that to be true either.

          Every new piece of writing brings new problems, and exposes new areas of ignorance to be researched.  You never know where a story’s going to lead you.  You’re always learning.

          I had no idea, fifteen years ago, when I headed off for a walking holiday based in Durham, that, as a result, I was going to learn so much about the reivers and their way of life – to say nothing of modern weaponry.  Nor, that fifteen years later, I’d still be learning more.

          I’m doing what I declared I would, fifty-odd years ago, aged four.  I can’t say I regret it.

          And here's Blot -