Icy Sedgwick's Blog, page 85

National Novel Reading Month

John Wiswell has reminded me that National Novel Reading Month begins on February 1st. It's quite simple - you choose a classic you've never read, read it in February, and then talk about it.



As I'm looking at the Gothic as part of my PhD thesis, I think it only right that I choose a book related to my topic. I've chosen Horace Walpole's The Castle of Otranto. I've been meaning to read it for months now, but this has given me a very good excuse!



The Castle of Otranto is largely considered the first Gothic text, and was originally published in 1764 as an alleged translation of an ancient text. Walpole eventually acknowledged authorship by the time the second edition came out. It's available for the Kindle for free through Project Gutenberg but I'll be reading the paperback version, a book I bought at an art exhibition about his rather stunning house at Strawberry Hill.

#FridayFlash - The Dreamcatcher

Theophilius Hopgood sat at his desk, the quill in his hand poised above a parchment strip. He peered through his glasses at the small glass bottle on the shelf of the desk. Tiny blue particles drifted to and fro, disturbing the pale green mist inside the vial. Hopgood dipped the quill into the ink and scrawled ‘Eternium’ on the parchment. When the ink dried, he’d stick the label onto the bottle, and it would leave his workshop, destined for sale in one of the emporia far below his attic.





Three ornate cages stood near the open window. Two of the cages were empty, their occupants out working in the City Above. The third cage contained a large grey bird that slept with its head tucked beneath one wing.



A fluttering of wings at the window announced the return of one of the birds. Midway between a vulture and an owl, it squeezed through the narrow opening and landed on Hopgood’s vast work surface. Its ruby talons gripped a net of woven cobweb and silk thread. Clouds of coloured mist clung to the net, sparkling in the gloom of the workshop.



“Ah, Medusa, you have been busy!”



Hopgood petted the bird, and she raised one leg to allow him to remove the net. He picked up his tweezers and teased each of the clouds free, depositing them into small glass bottles. He counted six in total. He shook out the net and hung it from a peg on the wall to dry.



Hopgood examined the bottles. Two of them contained pale green clouds studded with floating blue particles. Hopgood smiled – he’d need to write more Eternium labels, and dreams of immortality always sold well.



The bird fluttered up to one of the empty cages and clambered inside, far less graceful on foot than she was in the air. Her ruby talons gripped the bar of the cage and she settled down to sleep, tucking her head beneath her wing to mirror the pose of her avian neighbour. Hopgood marvelled at those talons; right now, they kept the bird upright through sleep, but those same talons could also prise free the dreams of slumbering Citizens.



Hopgood settled down in the chair to write more labels for the bottles. He counted two dreams of immortality, one of love, one of success, and two of enduring friendship. Ettamora would be pleased; her dreams emporium was the favoured destination of slum-dwellers hoping to share the dreams of the rich Citizens in the City Above.



The third bird clattered through the window, landing on the desk in a heap. Its talons were tangled in the silken net, and Hopgood spent ten minutes working the bird free. The net held a single cloud, heavy and black, studded with red beads that glowered like baleful eyes.



“Sandor, how often must I tell you? You must harvest only good dreams, not bad ones!” Hopgood admonished the bird as it flew up to the cage, hiding in its shadows.



Hopgood wrung out the net, squeezing the black cloud into a larger jar, its glass thicker than that of the other bottles. He forced in the stopper before the cloud could escape, but the particles hammered against the cork for several moments.



“You see, Sandor? That’s why bad dreams are dangerous. They’re always trying to get out and affect everything they touch. I’ll have to send it down to the forge so they can melt it down for nightmare parts.”



A loud knock echoed around the workshop. Hopgood shuffled across the room, squeezing between desks and display cases. He opened the door to a thin girl carrying a basket. She wore a threadbare shawl around her narrow shoulders, and her pinched features bore an expression of wearied resignation.



“Good evening, Pola. I have some new product for you.”



“Why do you ‘ave to live right up ‘ere? Takes me ages to climb them stairs,” said Pola, stepping into the workshop.



“The birds need to be above the smog to find their way out.”



Hopgood’s stomach roiled to think of the smog that clung to the Underground City. What he wouldn’t give to escape, to find a small attic in the City Above where he could enjoy fresh air and open skies. Not once had his birds brought home that dream. That was his own dream – definitely not for sale.



Pola grimaced, and moved no further into the workshop. Hopgood rolled his eyes and returned to his desk to fetch the finished bottles from their shelf. He wrapped them into a large handkerchief so he could carry them back to Pola. She tucked them into her basket, and handed him fourteen small copper pieces, one for each bottle. Ettamora would sell them on for three coppers each.



“Be seein’ you, Theo.”



Pola turned and left, her wheezing filling the stairwell as she descended into darkness. Hopgood closed the door and returned to his desk. Sandor still didn’t sleep, instead peering out of his cage at his master. Hopgood held out his arm and Sandor clambered free, fluttering down to rest on Hopgood’s forearm.



“I want fresh air, Sandor, and I’m sure you do too. But I can’t afford a workshop Above.”



Sandor pecked at Hopgood’s chest and stared up at him, an idea burning in his grey eyes. Hopgood smiled.



“Sandor, you’re a genius. Why don’t I just sell the dreams myself?”



The bird nuzzled against his master, and Hopgood moved across the workshop to the grate to enjoy its meagre warmth. He settled in his old chair, Sandor roosting on his shoulder. Soon Hopgood’s eyes closed and his mind drifted, skipping through the open boulevards of a city whose sky stretched for eternity.




* * *


This story is set in the Underground City, part of the universe for my dark fantasy/horror novella, The Necromancer's Apprentice. Three of the other stories so far are The Supplicant, The Vault of Lost Voices, and The Fishwives.

#FridayFlash - Polaroids

Angela hated having her photo taken. Will dated her for sixteen months, and didn't capture a single image. He'd tried taken them when she slept, and even then she'd turn at the last moment, leaving only a blurred shadow on the camera. Even her online profile photo was a caricature she'd drawn herself on rainy Tuesday afternoon.



Will stared out of the window, watching the last of the mourners depart, and for the first time since he'd met her, he found himself wishing he had just one photograph.



A pile of mementos lay on the table, assembled by her friends and family to celebrate the life cut short by a drug-encrusted driver. Will glanced at the assorted books and knick knacks, unsure what to do with them. He appreciated the gesture, but they'd hardly bring Angela back.



Agent Smith clambered up onto the table; the fuzzy Calico sent the pile of books sliding onto the floor in his quest to stick his head into Will's mug. Will grabbed the cat and pulled him onto his lap. Agent Smith looked up at him, that same questing expression on his face.



"Sorry, old man, she's not coming back. Just you and me now."



He scratched the cat's head. Agent Smith stood up on Will's chest and rubbed his head against Will's chin.



"I just wish I had one photo, you know? It sounds stupid...but I'm scared I'll forget what she looks like. Sorry...looked like."



Agent Smith mewed his support. He leapt down from Will's lap and skidded across the pile of fallen books. The largest, a huge tome compiled by Angela's wizened old aunt, fell open. Its heavy cover thudded against the carpet. A Polaroid flapped loose, and skated towards Will. He picked it up, and held it to the waning light.



A young woman filled the centre of the frame, one hand held up to block the camera. The palm covered her face but it was Angela - it had to be. Will recognised her top, and the choppy brown hairstyle. Her aunt must have sneaked in a photo while rampaging around a family event with that dratted Polaroid camera of hers.



Will smiled, and tears pricked his eyes. He still couldn't see her face, but he had a photo. He couldn't forget her now.



A flicker of movement caught his eye. He peered more closely at the photo, watching as the hand covering the face lowered out of the shot. Angela stared out at him. Will yelped and dropped the photo. Agent Smith ambled across the floor and sniffed it. Angela waved, and the cat yowled, streaking across the room to hide behind the sofa.



Will picked up the photo by its corners, careful not to touch the window containing Angela. She didn't return his smile - an unfamiliar scowl adorned her face.



"Hiya, love." Will felt stupid talking to a photo, but he also felt like he needed to say something.



Angela crossed her arms over her chest and the scowl deepened.



"Sorry, love, I don't know what to do."



Angela moved towards him, a glare in her eyes and a snarl on her lips, and Will stifled the urge to flinch. She reached the flimsy barrier of the Polaroid and hammered her fists against an invisible shield. The photo flapped from Will's fingers, swinging back and forth from the weight of her fury.



Will slipped the Polaroid back into the book and slammed it shut. The heavy cover didn't move, and Will risked a sigh of relief. He pushed the book under the sofa and left the room, followed by Agent Smith. He led the cat into the kitchen, and leaned back against the counter. The remains of the buffet lay on foil platters, covered in clingfilm, and Will crumpled into a heap in front of the washing machine.



He tried to think of his Angela as he remembered her, laughing at old movies and skipping through fresh snow. When he closed his eyes, all he could see was Angela's glare. He'd never seen that side of Angela before, possessed by anger, but he couldn't shake an old feeling, one he'd often wondered about whenever Angela refused to have her photo taken.



After all, the camera never lied.

Improving productivity

I'm quite a fan of the Brain Pickings blog, and last week they featured this animated video about the science of productivity, from AsapSCIENCE.







The main points raised by the video are;


Willpower can be depleted, so simply convincing yourself to 'try harder' won't work;


Starting a project is the biggest barrier to actually being productive;


Successful people don't work more, they work better, putting in periods of intense work of around 90 minutes followed by breaks of 15-20 minutes to see more work done;


Habit and discipline are key to establishing a productive routine;


Deadlines focus the mind;


A list of progress should be made so you can evaluate what you've actually done, helping you avoid mindless tasks;


Avoid multi-tasking as you end up doing less; and


Split big tasks into smaller tasks to make them more manageable.

Given I have to divide my time between PhD work, study for a teacher training qualification, preparatory work I need for teaching, writing, and having a life, I thought I might share my top three tips for being productive.



1) Make lists

I make two types of lists. The first is the things I need to do - I split this list into two columns, listing what needs to be done against when I'm going to do it, and I list things according to when they need to be done (naturally the things due for Tuesday will be higher up the list than those due on Thursday). I can cross things off as I've done them which gives me a natural sense of achievement as I end up with more crossed out tasks than uncrossed out tasks.



2) Set deadlines

If something doesn't actually have a deadline, I find that I'll procrastinate and find all sorts of reasons not to work on it...so I set myself a deadline to ensure that I will. I also do more work the less time I have in which to do it because I'm very much aware of the clock ticking. Even self-imposed deadlines get me working faster.



3) Take breaks

I have the attention span of a particularly hyperactive spaniel so I find my attention wanders very easily, no matter how engrossing the task at hand may be. The only way for me to get through it is to promise myself a break. Rather than making myself sit and focus on something for several hours, I work for an hour or so, take a break, then come back to whatever I was doing. Even when I'm writing something like a blog post, there are usually mini breaks, during which I check Twitter or read other blogs. It breaks up my work and gives me something to come back to.



What about you? What do you do to remain productive?

#FridayFlash - Pipers Piping

A piper sits in the square, huddled on the corner of a monument to a forgotten City Father. Passersby see his threadbare stockings through the holes in his battered boots, and they shake their well-coiffed heads. They tut at his moth-eaten tunic, and mutter among themselves about his lifeless cap and torn mittens. He ignores them, focussing only on the pipes in his lap. His frozen fingers fly up and down the chanter, and he stares at the cold paving stones to avoid their stares.




Minutes turn into hours, and still the piper plays. He slides into a sea shanty; a group of passing navvies dance and jig in the square, and toss a few brass coins into the pot before his seat. He turns the shanty into a doleful funeral march that plucks at the strings of all but the hardest heart, and a small child drops a penny into the pot before her highborn mother can scold her. Soon the piper picks up the tempo and plunges into a frenetic polka. A couple that mirror the piper in their poverty laugh and clap their hands, and they throw a ha'penny into his pot. For each of the givers, the piper spares a short smile, and their lives.




The piper plays all day, yet he never misses a note, and never skips a beat. He weaves music so beautiful it could almost be the faint shimmer that seems to light his corner of the piazza. The well-to-do among the citizenry continue to complain about his appearance, considering his ragtag clothes a disgrace to the fine square, yet they stand long enough to listen, long enough to enjoy. The piper ignores them all, but he has discerned tapping feet, and suppressed smiles.




By the day's end, the city's workers have retired to their homes, or the taverns. Only those with fewer concerns can spare the time to listen to the piper. A handful of officials gather nearby, keen not to be seen listening to such vulgar music, but equally intent on enjoying it. None of them have added to his collection, nor have they offered to buy him supper, or pay to have his boots mended. The piper sweeps his gaze around the square, and contents himself that only those who have spent the day deploring his existence are present.




His music shifts again, this time cutting into a gentle waltz. The onlookers find themselves clasping hands with strangers, forced into pairs by the rhythm surrounding them. The dancers follow in each other's footsteps as they glide around the square, compelled by the music to join the waltz. The piper continues to play, increasing the tempo. The waltzers must dance faster, and the embarrassed smiles and ill-concealed amusement begin to wane. As the waltz gains speed, the dancers struggle, and try to break free. Grins turn to grimaces, and panic rises to replace pleasure. Still the piper plays his song, and soon the dancers are running around the square. They roll their eyes and froth at their mouths in their efforts to leave, but still the waltz holds them in its grasp.




The first to expire is a corpulent bureaucrat, red and perspiring as he huffs his last. His partner, to her eternal dismay, continues to waltz, albeit on her own. Others do not fare better - they drop, one by one, landing in heaps on the stones as their partners keep the waltz going. A socialite is the last to go, who collapses in the square, a single word on her lips as her heart gives out.



"Why?"



The piper stops, and his pipes continue his melody for a few moments until they, too, fall silent. He looks down at the amassed corpses and scowls. No answer will be given now.



He packs up his things and walks out of the square. He hums a tune as he turns into a side alley. A nice foxtrot should enliven his mood as he heads to the next town.

[Book Review] Transformation

I'll be honest, I wasn't expecting to like this eerie novella by Irish writer, Rab Swannock Fulton. Published by Dark Continents and edited by Nerine Dorman, Transformation tells the tale of a young man named Donnacha, a young dishwasher in Galway who meets an enchanting young woman named Eimir. Much of the first half of the book reads as a romance novel as their relationship deepens, and I was prepared to be put off since romance is not a preferred genre of mine. However, there's a real sense of the supernatural about the whole story, and I felt on tenterhooks throughout, which is essentially what kept me spellbound. Fulton has a beautiful, lyrical style and the haunting quality to the romance kept me wondering what would happen to break the idyll he'd created.



You can't keep the supernatural out for long, and in Donnacha's case, he becomes persecuted by a pooka, a creature from Irish folklore and Welsh mythology. The use of the pooka, as opposed to a more familiar monster or beast, gives Transformation a sharp edge, as Donnacha battles to keep his soul and defeat the evil goat once and for all. The book makes full use of its Galway setting, and the contrast of the gentle romance and horror powers the story in a very visceral way.



Donnacha makes a convincing and likeable narrator, and his motivations are believeable, if a little naive at times. The introduction of the pooka was a masterstroke, since a more conventional creature could have seen the book become a retread of familiar themes, but as it is, the book becomes an original version of a twisted fairy tale, as well as a darker version of more popular paranormal romances - and one that also made me want to conduct further research into Irish folklore. It's a very absorbing and quick read (indeed, I breezed through it in three days) and I'll be very interested to see what Fulton does next.



Four and a half blunt pencils out of five!



You can buy Transformation for the Kindle from Amazon US and Amazon UK. You can also buy it for Kobo and Nook.

Making Resolutions That Stick

We're a week into the New Year, and if you’re a writer, you've no doubt composed a raft of New Year’s resolutions related to your craft - resolutions that you might find that you're struggling to stick to now that you're back into a routine at work and away from your 'holiday bubble'. While others resolved to visit the gym three times a week, or to buy fewer pairs of shoes, you’ve resolved to write 1000 words a day, finish writing eight novels, or to hit the best-seller list by the end of the year. We do it every year, and we usually fail every year, making us feel worse, not better, about our writing. So how can we make resolutions that we’ll be able to stick to?



1) Be realistic



One of the problems with resolutions is that we try to over-reach ourselves. Think of this not as a resolution but as a goal – so it’s what you’re aiming to do, not what you will do. By giving yourself this flexibility, you’re more likely to stick to whatever framework you set yourself, and therefore complete your goal by year’s end. So your phrasing might be “I intend to finish writing one novel of 70,000 words or more” as opposed to “I will write a trilogy of 100,000 word novels”.



2) Don’t try to change your habits overnight



Following on from number one, it’s no use telling yourself that you will write a 100,000 word novel by the end of April if you normally find you only have time to write around 3,000 words a week. If you push yourself to work beyond your time constraints or work patterns, you may find you drop behind within a few days, and soon you’ll lose the motivation to write at all. Keep your resolutions (or goals) within your usual habits and you’ll find it easier to keep going.





3) Your resolutions don’t have to be time dependent



We always think our resolutions have to run from January to December but that’s highly unrealistic – we have no way of knowing where we’ll be twelve months from now. So why not set quarter resolutions? Maybe you’ll set yourself a particular word count to hit between now and the end of March. If you hit it with ease, you can raise it for the end of June, and so on. If you can’t hit it, then you can always reduce your count for the next one until it’s manageable.



4) Think beyond the resolution



Try setting yourself an additional goal beyond the resolution itself – in psychological terms, link situations with actions. So you might reword your resolution from “I will finish my book and send it to an agent” to “If I complete my novel and receive positive beta feedback, then I will start sending it to agents”. It breaks the resolution down into manageable stages and gives you something to do when you've actually fulfilled the resolution. The end action also gives you an extra incentive.



5) Form a habit



Remember that you’re essentially trying to form a new habit by forming a resolution, and the only way for something to really become a habit is if you do it! Sit down, start typing, or researching – whatever it is you need to do to make your resolution a reality. The more regularly you do it, the better a chance you stand at actually making your resolution stick. Your resolution might be to write more, and you might have a spare ten minutes at lunch time, so maybe you might want to write 500 words every lunchtime. So get on and do it.



What are your resolutions - and have you broken them already?

#FridayFlash - The Supplicant

The shrine to Beseda lay deep in the bowels of the Underground City. It could only be reached by a twisting staircase that cut its way through layers of black and grey rock, a staircase frequently blocked by the sheer number of supplicants trying to enter or leave the shrine. Its lack of natural light made time irrelevant in the Underground City, and traffic to the shrine was almost constant. However, Arabella determined that many of the slum dwellers would be packed into taverns and other drinking dens on the Feast of Rogues. As a result, the staircase to the shrine was mercifully quiet as she picked her way down the steps towards the hallowed doors.



She slipped between the iron gates and padded along the hallway towards the inner sanctum. There were no guards, for everyone guarded the shrine in their own way, and the priests were more fierce than anyone the City could appoint. Arabella clutched her meagre offering and bit her lip - would it be enough? She hoped that sincerity would hold more weight than quantity when it came to matters of supplication.



Arabella ducked under the low beam and stepped inside the shrine. Priests sat in alcoves set into the walls of the circular room, bent over scrolls or tablets. Only one looked up as she entered, and after passing a disinterested gaze over her, he returned to his work. Arabella took that as an invitation to enter fully, and she ventured further into the shrine. The centre of the room was dominated by a tall statue of a slender woman, arms held aloft as her owl wings curved around her body for either protection or modesty - the priests could not decide. Two long, elegant feathers formed eyebrows, and talons tipped her fingers and toes. A range of offerings occupied the plinth at her feet, with prayers written in either childish handwriting or simple pictures.



Arabella knelt before the giant statue of Beseda, the owl princess deity of vulnerable women and legal affairs. She placed her bedraggled bunch of liberated nightblooms on the plinth and bowed her head. She kept her voice low so as not to disturb the priests in their work, or indeed to provide them with new subjects for idle gossip.



“Lady Beseda, I need your help. I know I don’t come often but that’s ‘cause I don’t like to bother you none. But right now I can’t do much more on my own. I tried to be good, see, I tried to do what I were told, and I tried to always take each beatin’ with a smile in my heart, but it ain’t no good.”



Her fingers strayed to the array of bruises on her left arm, fresh purple flowers amid blooms of dull brown and vicious yellow. The words that accompanied each blow were like daggers to the heart, imprinted on her mind like hieroglyphs of pain.



“I never wanted to marry him in the first place but Mama said I had to leave, give her more food for the rest o’ the family. She knows he hits me, but she says I must deserve it.”



A stray tear escaped and slid down Arabella’s cheek, tracing the faint shadow of an old bruise usually hidden by her curtain of hair. Her husband didn’t hit her face any more; he wouldn’t be able to sell her to the men at the tavern if she looked damaged.



“I know what he’s got planned for me, and I don’t want no part of it. I’ve only got a few days until my cycle ends, and then…”



Arabella sniffed back another tear. She closed her eyes and continued her prayer to Beseda inside her head. The priests, recognising true need, left the weeping young woman alone in the shrine. However, Arabella was not quite alone. Something soft brushed her face, and she opened her eyes to see a long white feather, spotted with black, lying on the plinth on top of her bunch of nightblooms. Better yet, a small glass vial stood beside the feather.



Arabella snatched up the gifts and threw her arms around the legs of the statue. She smothered the cold stone with kisses, and her words of gratitude tumbled out in a rush. She slipped the vial and the feather into her pockets and bolted out of the shrine, almost colliding with the priests in her hurry to leave.



The young woman thought of the gifts as she scrambled up the twisting staircase, the flaming torches throwing flickering shadows across the walls. She smiled; everyone knew that owl tears were poisonous. The vial contained either release or retribution, depending on how she used it.



“And the feather will take the sting away,” she sang as she climbed.



Praise be to Beseda…




* * *


This story is set in the Underground City, part of the universe for my dark fantasy/horror novella, The Necromancer's Apprentice. Two of the other stories so far are The Vault of Lost Voices, and The Fishwives.

[Book Review] Outlaw

Anyone who knows me will know that I have a fondness for Westerns, and those written by Matthew Pizzolato are no exception. I welcomed him over to the Blunt Pencil back in October for an interview in which Matt discusses the challenges of marketing Westerns, so to help with that marketing, I want to put up my review for his latest novella, Outlaw.



Outlaw tells the story of the bad boy outlaw, Wesley Quaid, who rides into the sleepy town of Leeville, Kansas, in the hope that he can lie low in an effort to escape his reputation in Texas. You can't keep a good outlaw down, and soon Quaid is checking out the bank with the intention of pulling a heist. Things don't go according to plan since he gets his eye on the pretty bank clerk, Colleen, and soon he's struggling with his feelings for her, as well as becoming embroiled in a turf war with the hot-headed son of the local ranch owner. If that's not enough, he's also been made deputy marshal, he's got a thing with the hot woman who runs the saloon, and he's being tailed by a shadowy assassin named Sabrina...



I give you that much of the plot as an indication of how fast-paced this novella is. Pizzolato's writing is tight and the narrative unfurls at a swift pace, with plenty going on to make this an action-packed story. Casting an outlaw as your hero takes a lot of guts, and Quaid is more of a likeable rogue than a vicious bad guy. He'll give as good as he gets, but he doesn't pick fights with people unless he needs to. The setting feels plausible, and at no point did I feel like I'd been thrown out of the story. I would have liked to have seen more character development, as well as a little more back story for Sabrina, but hey, that's what other novellas are for, right?



Outlaw is a quick but tight read, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I'll be looking forward to more of Wesley Quaid's adventures.



Four blunt pencils out of five!



You can buy it for the Kindle from Amazon US or Amazon UK, and it's also available in paperback.

So, 2013, we meet at last...

I asked the question on Twitter a few days ago about whether or not I should restrict myself to talking about writing, design and so on, or whether people would like to see more posts that express me as a person. I'm not very good at talking about myself on my blog, but I can't help thinking that solely featuring posts about writing, or arty things, may be a little 'dry'. A few people asked me to do both, so I figured now was as good a time as any to do a more 'personal' post, as I discuss how the holidays have gone!



It's been wonderful to have time off work, time that I've been able to spend relaxing (something with which I often have some difficulty), and doing work for my PhD (on which I've fallen behind a bit of late). I don't often feel that I have the time to sit and unwind, since I always have a lot of things I should be doing instead of relaxing. I also had a very good Christmas, receiving books that are both useful and interesting (Kim Newman's Nightmare Movies, a Boris Karloff biography, and a book on the English Civil War), DVDs, and Nintendo DS games that should keep me out of mischief. I even found time to do a spot of baking, producing one of my now infamous chocolate orange loaf cakes and a collection of ninjabread men for Christmas Day.



What are ninjabread men, I hear you ask. Well, they're gingerbread men made using my ninja cookie cutters! I had a lot of fun decorating them with icing pens as well, and I've included some photos below. Cool, aren't they?






The ninjabread men before...






After...






Close up!


They were also incredibly delicious and I'll no doubt make them again in future. I have some dinosaur cutters that I want to try so you never know, I might feature a gingersaurus or something within the next few months.



For New Year, I originally went to my best friend's house party but a killer headache (and a problem with my shoulder that makes it painful to breathe) forced me home early, so I saw in the New Year with my parents. I was also my family's First Foot for the year, which is a somewhat archaic tradition that we follow in order to welcome the new year. In Scottish and Northern English folklore, the First Foot is whoever is first to enter the house in the new year, bringing with them good fortune (allegedly). First-footers must leave the house before midnight, and return after midnight, bringing with them a collection of 'gifts'. In our house, it's a silver coin (to symbolise prosperity), a piece of food (to ensure continuing food), a box of matches (to bring warmth) and a drink (usually whisky though I've been known to toast the new year with cranberry juice. First footers are supposed to be tall, dark-haired men, but I've done it before, and I'm doing it again. Other countries, or even parts of the UK, have different traditions, but that's how we do things at Castle Sedgwick.



I posted last week about looking back over 2012, and looking forward over 2013, and I did say my main goals were related to fiction projects, my PhD and things at work. Having said all of that, I also decided to make some creative resolutions, and I've decided that my goals for the year are to;


Read and review at least one fiction book every month,
Go to the cinema and review at least one film every month,
Write 100 words every day,
Produce an image of some form every day.


It may sound like a lot to work through, but I've been reading more than a book a month for 2012 anyway so it is simply continuing that work, and writing a hundred words, be it on an existing project or just as a vignette, shouldn't be too difficult as again, I've been doing it anyway. Producing an image, be it a drawing or a photo, should be easy as I pretty much did that anyway for the latter half of 2012! As far as the cinema goes, it largely depends on what is released, but I let my cinema blog fall by the wayside last year, and I'd like to feature more content on it. Being a film academic should be incentive enough but I'm hoping to have more free time after April to make producing content a little easier.



So now I've said all that...how about you?