Icy Sedgwick's Blog, page 76

Using Silver Clay

I've always enjoyed messing about with anything that lets me use my hands, and I was a big fan of Fimo Soft for a long time. I've been making jewellery for a little while now, and I always enjoy finding new materials or techniques to try. I was browsing available one-day workshops around Newcastle when I came across a Silver Clay class at the Mushroom Works. I've known about metal clay for a while but haven't been able to get my head around how it works, so I thought I'd go along and give it a go.







Silver clay, in this case Art Clay Silver Standard, looks just like regular polymer clay when it first comes out of the packet. You can roll it out, cut out shapes, all the usual jazz you'd expect from clay. I made these shapes by pressing the clay into silicon moulds, the type of thing you might use with sugar paste for cake decorating. The ammonite on the left came out looking like that, but I added the last of my clay as a tiny ball onto the heart on the right.



Next stage is to dry the clay - we used heat guns but you could leave it out overnight. Once it's dry, you can use emery paper to smooth off the edges and buff out any imperfections or fingerprints, and you can use a pin drill to make the holes. Then it needs to be fired.







We used a kiln, in this case at 650°C, and it comes out white (you can also use a blowtorch or a gas stove). The pieces also shrink by up to 10% because the binding agent holding the silver particles together burns off in the firing process, leaving behind 99.99% silver. Using a brass brush, you brush off the white coating, revealing the silver underneath. An agate burnisher helps to buff it up to a mirror shine.



Next, I used the pin drill again to make sure the hole was big enough, and I attached a jump ring so I could hang it from a cord. A length of 3mm black satin ribbon helped turn the heart into this choker...







And I repeated the process for the ammonite (which I only realised looked like Ursula's shell from The Little Mermaid after I was finished).







It still baffles me how I could now have two pendants made of silver which started life looking like clay, but it's definitely something that I want to experiment with further. I think I'll try the copper next as it's cheaper, and while it can't be fired on the stove, it can be fired with a blowtorch, making it a more accessible route into metal clay jewellery!



Have you ever used metal clay?

#FridayFlash - Death On The Moor

It is early November. The trees huddle in copses, their leaves ablaze in hues of copper and gold for a final fanfare. Creeping mist crawls across the moor, reaching to the heavens to meet the leaden sky in an endless sea of grey. The harsh call of a solitary crow pierces the silence but I need no formal announcement. There are none here to hear it. Indeed, the men who lie at my feet have long since departed their earthly shells - I have already partaken of their ruin.



I walk among the fallen men, and wonder at their folly. The survivors have abandoned them, taking what dignity and pride they had left. No pennants snap and flutter in the breeze. No monuments will be built, the tears of their families the only sign of mourning. I lift my head and breathe deeply of the cold air; snow is coming, and soon the final traces of the battle will be buried until spring. The autumn has died along with these men.



The beginnings of winter stir in my soul and I shiver. Even I am not immune to the season. I think of the victorious duke, and the roaring fire in his great hall. His castle is well guarded, but I find that no fortifications can withstand me. I think I shall pay the duke a visit, and cut short his celebrations as his warmongering has cut short these wasted lives.



The crow utters a farewell as I slip through time and space.

Icy Goes Owl Daft

Anyone who follows me on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook or Google+ will know I make things. In fact, I make a lot of things. I've been knitting since December 2008, crocheting since around January this year, and making jewellery since around April. That's not to mention the twenty years I've been taking photos, fiddling with Fimo soft or fixing broken clothes. Yet I haven't been blogging about it.



I think part of the problem comes from the fact that all of the blogging gurus originally told you to keep one topic to a blog. According to them, your baking buddies wouldn't be interested in your DIY tips, and your fiction writing friends wouldn't care about fishing. That's one reason why I originally put all of my design related stuff on a separate blog. In trying to promote my writing, I didn't think anyone would be interested in anything I'd made. But due to the way a lot of us now tag and categorise our blog posts, there has been a sea change, and I asked my favourite blogging guru, Kristen Lamb, if I should keep my writing and crafting separate. She said no - you never know which of your writer buddies might also love knitting, and how many of your knitting friends might like your writing.



I also got involved with the inaugural #craftblogclub chat on Twitter this evening, organised by Emma Berry, and decided I'd start blogging about my crafty endeavours. After all, they take up a lot of my time, so why wouldn't I talk about them?



I thought I'd blog about my most recent creation, Sidney (the little owl pictured up there). I originally got the parts as a kit from Let's Knit magazine, and all I had to supply was the needles, the stuffing, and the time. I took the yarn to London on the train last week when I went to the Pompeii exhibition at the British Museum, and ended up knitting the whole thing - I finally assembled him on Sunday. I'm rather proud of him!



I love owls. I've got owl ornaments in my room, a satchel I got in Bonn that's covered in them, various necklaces with owl motifs, and now a cuddly one. As much as I love puffins, I think owls are possibly my favourite birds, particularly snowy owls (Hedwig FTW) and barn owls. They often represent wisdom, in part due to their ability to see in all directions, and they're the bird sacred to Athene. The ancient Greeks even featured them on coins to keep a watchful eye on commerce. English folklore hasn't been so kind, with superstitions tying them to death as heralds of an imminent passing, and tales linking owls to death also appear among First Nation tribes in North America. Regardless of their associations, I think they're magnificent birds, and I'm proud I've now made one!

#FridayFlash - The Intruder

At 1:53am, the shadow of Edith Warfield woke up. It had only ever been dimly aware of the world as it brushed up against daily life, dragging along a pavement here, or bumping into a table there. Yet for the first time, the shadow could see. Dust motes danced in the weak moonbeams that sneaked through the gap in the curtains. The shadow could hear. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked away the minutes until dawn.



The shadow drifted across the room to the window, but found itself caught. It turned and looked down, seeing its feet attached to the comfortable slippers of its owner. The shadow bent down and tugged until it tore itself free, and continued in its slow meander across the room. It passed dark fingers across mementoes from places it barely remembered, and inspected photographs above the fireplace of people it barely knew.



The shadow made its way to the door, where it spotted the pencil marks on the frame. A year was noted beside each one, marking the growth of Edith Warfield across fifty three years. The shadow would have smiled if it had a face, recognising its own growth recorded within the graphite dashes on wood.



A crash sounded at the back of the house as glass shattered and fell inward, scattering across the kitchen floor. The shadow looked at Edith, but she remained asleep, a single snort her only concession to the threatening noise in the next room.



The shadow stood in the centre of the room, frozen with indecision. The door knob turned as it weighed up its options, and the man was halfway through the door before the shadow decided to act. The man, tall and wide with a balaclava covering the lower half of his face, spotted Edith. He narrowed his eyes, and inched forward. The shadow darted forward and fastened dark hands around his meaty throat. The man clawed at the insubstantial hands as they squeezed the life out of him, and surprise contorted his face into a mask of confusion as his body fell to the floor.



The shadow looked down at the man for a full ten minutes. Satisfied that the man posed no further threat, the shadow reattached its feet to Edith's slippers, and lay down on the floor. At 2:08am, Edith Warfield's shadow fell asleep, content that it had had enough excitement for one evening.



Original image by Loovie. Edits by me.

Visit to Howick Hall Gardens

I took advantage of the good weather on yesterday’s Bank
Holiday Monday and took a trip with my parents up to Howick Hall Gardens and
Arboretum in Northumberland. Howick Hall is notable for being the former home
of Charles, the second Earl Grey, and creator of the famous Earl Grey tea. The
tea was specially blended by a Chinese mandarin since the water at Howick is
flavoured strongly by the lime rock in the area, and bergamot was added to
alter the flavour. Lady Grey began serving it during her trips to London, and
it became so popular that Twinings began marketing it. Unfortunately they didn’t
register the trade mark and they’ve never made a penny from the sales.




The second Earl Grey is probably the best known member of
the family, and he became Prime Minister in 1830. Two years later he introduced
the Great Reform Bill, which set Great Britain on the path towards our modern
form of parliamentary democracy (much to the chagrin of the Duke of
Wellington). His statue currently stands at the top of Grey’s Monument, at the
top of Grey Street in Newcastle, and he gave his name to Grey College in Durham
University.





Howick Hall itself is only partially open to the public,
with a new visitor centre located in the entrance hall of the main building,
and a tea room in one of the wings. Originally built in 1782 by the Newcastle
architect, William Newton, the house was enlarged in 1809 when the entrance was
moved from the south side to the north, and a terrace was constructed on the
south side (seen in the photo on the left). There are beautiful views from the terrace, with a plethora of agapanthus providing food for the many bumblebees and butterflies that visit the gardens. Sadly the main house was gutted in 1926 by fire, and it was rebuilt in 1928. The family moved out shortly after the death of the fifth Earl Grey in
1963, and in 1973 the present Lord Howick converted the West Wing into the
family home. The small visitor centre is very welcoming, giving information on the various plant species that can be seen around the gardens, but there are further plans to restore the whole ground floor. It would certainly be a good addition to what is already on offer, particularly to provide somewhere to go if the weather takes a turn for the worse!





The main attraction to Howick Hall is the gardens and the
vast arboretum. The gardens are primarily the work of the fifth Earl Grey, as
they adopted an informal, natural style of gardening, and they boast some wonderful plants brought from various parts of the world that have managed to thrive in the somewhat alien Northumberland landscape. There is the wild Bog
Garden around a small pond which was created in 1991, which features plants from China, India, Japan, New Zealand, North America and Europe. There are also the borders around the Hall itself, which only date to 2005, a
rockery (behind me in the photo on the right), various woodland gardens, the meadows around the large pond, and the arboretum itself. The rockery concentrates on alpine plants and shrubs, and features many species that flower in summer to compensate for the spring-flowering plants elsewhere in the gardens. The Arboretum covers some 65 acres of woodland walks with over 11,000 trees and shrubs planted from 1988.





There is also a small church on the site, St Michael and all Angels. Howick as a parish dates to 1158, and the original Norman church was replaced by an Ionic temple in the mid eighteenth century. It was destroyed by fire, and the present building was built in 1849. The church is still in use, celebrating a parish communion every second and fourth Sunday in the month. The tomb of the second Earl Grey is inside the south wall, while the small stone gargoyles on the outside north wall were all carved by the third Countess Grey, Maria. It's a beautiful little church, with a rambling graveyard, and boasts the sort of peaceful atmosphere that you only seem to find in those small, out-of-the-way places.



Howick Hall Gardens and Arboretum doesn't boast some of the amenities enjoyed by other attractions, but it has toilets, a tea room, and plenty of quiet woodland to enjoy. It's probably not well suited to children, unless they like wildlife and being out in the open air, and the rambling nature of the paths make it unsuitable for wheelchairs. If you're in the area, it's quiet and peaceful, and makes a wonderful change from the fast pace of city life.

#FridayFlash - Digital Afterlife

Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 4d

Going out tonight, people! Anyone else about?



Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 4d

Club so boring. Leaving early. Laterrrrsssss!



Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 4d

Maybe I'm paranoid but sure someone's following me.



Helena Thompson @pretty_n_pink 4d

Going to St Mary's. @wunderkind54 has been brought in.



Helena Thompson @pretty_n_pink 3d

Can't believe @wunderkind54 is gone. Love you and miss you, bro. RIP.



Billy O'Neill @18wheeler 3d

OMG just heard about @wunderkind54. Will miss you, mate.



Jem Reilly @princess_jem 2d

So sad to hear about @wunderkind54. Taken from us too young. You deserved better. Love you. x



Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 1d

It's so dark here.



Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 1d

Is anyone here?



Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 1d


I can see my parents. I keep talking to them but they don't see me. 




Billy O'Neill @18wheeler 1hr

@wunderkind54 Who do you think you are?




Helena Thompson @pretty_n_pink 2m

@wunderkind54 I don't know who you are but pretending to be my bro is pretty sick.




Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 2m


@pretty_n_pink It is me. I'm standing behind you - you're wearing your green skull T-shirt.





Aaron Thompson ‏@wunderkind54 2m


@pretty_n_pink I know who killed me.

Social interaction needs more than social media

Image by lusi

A couple of days ago, I posted a link on my various social media pages to this particular article, in which it is posited that social media is actually making us lonely. Author Jessica Hazel points out that "we tirelessly tweet and update alone from our bedrooms and offices whilst feeling that we are acting in an accessible and sociable manner", and even goes so far as to state that "the reality is that Facebook often just makes you feel like everyone is having an amazing time all the time apart from little sad you". I mostly agree with the points she raises, although when she discusses the fact that it's easier to feel lonely when you're sat at home and your news feed is full of all the exciting things everyone else is doing, she also neglects to mention that the people who are out having fun may feel the same way when they're at home and you're out. She also doesn't discuss the peculiar phenomenon that even when you are out socially with other people, most people are still glued to social media. I can't count the number of times I've been sitting talking to someone while they've been scrolling through Facebook or Twitter. How often does the shout go up of "Well THAT'S going on Facebook?" whenever we say something we feel is so funny or insightful that it must be shared with the wider group?



For me, social media is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it makes it much easier (and cheaper) to connect with people in far flung places. I can't just head down to my local Costa with Nerine Dorman or Carrie Clevenger so until I can, I have email to keep us together. If it wasn't for social media, I wouldn't have 'met' one of my most trusted beta readers, Rob Diaz. I wouldn't be involved in all the publishing things I've done, or am doing. It also makes organising things easier as you can contact several people at once to arrange an outing or a meet up, and keep everyone in the loop as to what's going on. Social media lets us be social with anyone we want to talk to. On the other hand, it is very easy for me to sit at home, looking at all the fun and amazing things other people are doing, while I'm sat on the sofa watching yet another poor attempt at a horror film, while I wonder why no one thought to invite me. I actually miss calling people to ask how they're getting on, and to have a catch up. It's easy to feel such interactions are pointless since I can keep up with their lives online. Why would I phone someone when I can just nip onto Facebook to see what they're up to?



I think we need to have a balance. I went to the pub last night with the very talented Tony Bengtsson (I interviewed him last year and his music is here - go and have a listen) and I only felt compelled to check my phone about three times. Conversation flowed, ideas were exchanged, and it was a good night of discussion and social interaction. If it were The Sims, those social points would have been racking up in a way they just don't do if you're only talking to someone through Facebook Messenger. You can add all the emoticons you want, and pepper your text with 'lol' but no text-based dialogue can truly replace a proper conversation, with all of the unconscious body language and vocal intonations. It's especially valuable for writers - we need that social interaction for story fodder, and for character ideas. It's the little personality quirks that you only see in person that bring characters to life.



So I say use social media, get to know people on the other side of the world, but don't focus on it at the expense of social interactions in your immediate vicinity.

#FridayFlash - Dreams

It is Saturday night in the city. It is warm, and my window is open, letting in a cool breeze. This is through no kindness towards me; Mother has left the window open so that I may hear the world outside. This is to punish me for my wickedness. I am unsure as to the nature of my most recent transgression but she assures me it was heinous indeed. I am to sit here and listen to the sounds of other young people enjoying the evening delights of the city.



A market is in progress below my window - the glow of its lights casts twisted shadows across my walls. The stallholders bark details of their goods and customers haggle over the matter of a few coins. There is a restaurant on the other side of the plaza, where glasses chink, cutlery clatters against plates, and people laugh. The words are indistinct but stories are told, punctuated by guffaws as punch lines are reached. I fill in the blanks, and smile. These people must lead such interesting, rich lives, out there in the city. Out there...



I stand on my bed and try to peer through the window high in the wall. I can see little, but my imagination paints me a picture. Groups of friends huddle around tables, sharing stories while waiters bustle between them. Platters of steaming food turn the air into a riot of smells as people sample cuisines both exotic and local. Bonhomie and warmth turns the night heavy.



I turn away from the window, back to my bare little room. Mother took my books to punish me for forgetting to say grace. She took my telescope when I forgot to bless her after she sneezed. She still allows me paper and pencils to write or draw, but she takes what I produce. She tells me my talents are not my talents, they are gifts from God, so my art must return to Him. I do not understand this, but I do not tell her so in case she takes the paper away too.



I lie down on my bed, and think about the gift I have been given by the Universe. It gave me sleep, and the chance to dream. My eyes close, and I melt into the arms of Morpheus, and he takes me to a world without prisons, where I can run free. My dreams know no punishments, or rules. God has no jurisdiction in my dreams.

Silent Cinema Will Make You A Better Writer

Image from The Cabinet of Dr Caligari (1920)
Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

I wrote this post back in January 2012 for Fuel Your Writing but the more I've been watching silent cinema for my PhD, the more I think the principles are still applicable. I first wrote the post following the phenomenal success of The Artist, a modern day silent film set in the late 1920s, although I've now expanded it to include a few other films. I’m a firm believer in applying film theories or techniques to writing, and it seemed an ideal time to examine five principles of silent cinema that can enrich the work of a writer.



Why would I do that? I know some might say that film and literature are separate disciplines and naturally have different requirements (for example, an establishing shot is essentially in film, but if a writer takes too long to ’set the scene’, it can make for very dull reading) but I’d argue that writers can still learn new things from different sources. Writers shouldn’t fall into the trap of assuming that only studying writing can help their work. I’m not saying that you should cut all dialogue from your work, but let’s have a look at the bigger picture…



1) Show, Don’t Tell



This is probably the king of all silent cinema techniques that the writer should use, and is arguably advice you’ve heard before. Without dialogue, the actors have to display every emotion either on their face, or through their body language. It is indeed true that a picture tells a thousand words, and we don’t need reams of exposition when faced with a faltering smile or a pouting femme fatale with her arms tightly folded across her chest. We don't need someone to tell us that Dr Caligari is a nutjob when he's depicted with a crazed stance, a wild facial expression and melodramatic gesticulations - we can see it for ourselves. Show us what’s going on with your characters, let their facial expressions and body language do the talking. We’re aware of it all the time in real life, so why not try it in your writing?



2) No Info Dumps!



It’s an attractive tendency of fiction to allow your characters to dole out back story through so-called ‘info dumps’, usually within lengthy passages of dialogue. The brevity of the silent film cue card doesn’t allow for masses of text, so key visuals are chosen instead to fill in the back story. Just as film fans were trusted to be able to understand the implications of specific shots, trust your readers to pick up on the small details and fill in the rest themselves. For example, you don’t need to waste paragraphs describing a character’s reliance on alcohol – just show them putting yet another empty bottle into a crate full of other empty bottles.



Do You Really Need Back Story?



If you’ve seen The Artist, you’ll realise that neither George Valentin nor Peppy Miller have in depth backstories. George is a successful silent film star and Peppy is a girl who comes to Hollywood looking for fame. We never learn much more than that, but nor do we need to. The performances and actions of both characters make it easy to like them and root for them, without time needing to be taken to explain how past events have coloured or shaped their present decision-making. Charlie Chaplin gave his Little Tramp very little backstory because the films were set in the 'here and now' - we didn't need to know what he did for a living before working in the factory in Modern Times because it's irrelevant. I know writers are counselled to know the entire biographies of their characters but you don’t have to communicate that to the reader – just pertinent details so we understand why they’re doing what they’re doing.





Courtesy of The Hitchcock Project

Be Inventive



In 1926, Alfred Hitchcock directed Ivor Novello in The Lodger, a gripping thriller about a serial killer loose in London. One notable scene has Novello pacing back and forth in his room while the family with whom he is lodging listen in the room below, convinced he is the twisted killer. How on earth do you communicate the sound of someone pacing if you can’t hear it? You do what Hitchcock did and film Novello pacing on sheet glass, then superimpose it over the ceiling so it looks as though we can see through the ceiling to the room above. No sound required.



It is this inventive spirit that marks the silent filmmakers as true pioneers, and also a good source of inspiration for writers. Think about what you’re trying to communicate, and how you’re going to communicate it, and ask yourself… is there a more inventive way of doing so?



Check Your Pacing



Without dialogue to puncture the silence, early films couldn’t rely on lengthy speeches or conversations to pass the time. Films had to be short due to the technical capabilities of the equipment, but few viewers would sit through a film rife with pacing problems. D W Griffith’s Birth of a Nation ran at just over three hours long, but his tendency to focus on imagery for imagery’s sake left the film feeling tedious and self-indulgent. Writers can fall into the same trap, either by rattling off reams of purple prose, or by getting bogged down in dialogue and “witty” exchanges that soon become staid. A balance between the two should always be sought, and always ensure that your pacing remains even – try passing your work to a trusted reader, and if they find some passages too fast or slow, then double check to the balance between dialogue and prose.



Do you find that cinema principles can help enrich your writing? 

#FridayFlash - Settling In

The cabinet looked easy to assemble in the store, but Sadie stared at the instructions as though they were written in hieroglyphics. They might as well have been, for all of their nonsensical symbols and pictograms. She looked back down at the two panels she was trying to fix together and sighed.



Still, the furniture wouldn't put itself together, and they needed somewhere to house the TV. At least that way they'd have something to do on an evening, instead of staring at boxes, hoping they'd unpack themselves.



She leaned forward and began tightening the left screw. The wood moaned a complaint as the metal forced a spiral path within the pre-drilled hole. Sadie thrust her weight behind the screwdriver and twisted the handle.



A crash sounded behind her, and Sadie jolted forward. The screwdriver jumped out of the screw head and cut into the palm of her hand. Blood welled up along the thin line, and stinging pain enveloped her hold hand. Sadie swore under her breath, and turned around to see what made the crash. The room was empty aside from herself and the furniture. Something warm trickled down her palm, and Sadie looked back to her hand to see blood dripping from the wound onto the floor.



Sadie clambered to her feet and hurried into the kitchen. Two clean tea towels lay on the draining board. She wrapped one of them tightly around her hand to stop the bleeding, and carried the other back into the living room. She looked down at the floor in front of the half assembled cabinet and stopped.



The blood was gone.



"Sweetie? Did you clean the floor?" Sadie called into the dining room. Toby poked his head around the door, paint splattering his hair and T-shirt.



"No, why?"



"I cut my hand on a screwdriver and it bled onto the floor, only now it's gone."



"Are you ok?" Toby crossed the room and unwrapped her hand to inspect the injury. Blood oozed out of the cut and onto the towel.



"I'll be fine, but the floor..."



Toby looked at the floor, and back at Sadie.



"It must have soaked in already," he said, giving her a wink as he suppressed a smile.



"Maybe it wasn't that bad," said Sadie. She looked around the room, still unsure what made the crash in the first place.



"Come on, let's get that hand cleaned up." Toby led her out of the room in search of their first aid box.



Somewhere in the dark depths, below the basement, the house licked its lips.