Angela Petch's Blog, page 8
May 8, 2020
Remembering those who we lost…
[image error]
I wrote this poem a few years ago about my Uncle Billy, whom I never met. My mother’s only brother, William Beary.
He was only nineteen, a rear gunner with the RAF, when he was shot down.
So many people made sacrifices for us.
#Lest we forget.
Watery red ladies
I sit beneath the shelter
Where the tossing, hissing, spitting spray
Is kept at bay.
I wait with rug across my knees,
Pencil poised to tie her down with words.
Nurse wants to wheel me to the warmth,
The fuddled, stale, urine warmth.
“You’ll catch your death out here,” she says.
I smile and slowly net my memories.
I watch you unpin your hair,
Unfurling like rolls of corn- gold silk,
And peel off your scarlet chemise,
Toss it to the breeze
And step into the waves.
Words waft wistfully as you waltz in the weed
That clings to bare, salt thighs.
You perform to the sun, the crimson, orange sinking
Sun that slips between the now and then.
Tell me what you sing so sad.
Watery red lady,
You flew upon the back of your blue eagle.
He spread his wings and scooped you high
From dew-grass where Philadelphus
Sprinkled perfumed petalled confetti promises.
He lies below a bed of barley in a Slavian valley
Beneath toad-flax and corncockle.
For his King but not for you.
How soon are the young become old
And the watery red ladies dance no more,
Save in the shadows at the sea’s edge,
Tell me what I sing so sad.
Angela Petch ©
My uncle had a girlfriend. I imagined her as an old lady in a home, catching memories of the past.
May 3, 2020
Juxtapose… Just suppose…
We’re still in lockdown.
I’m missing family and friends so much, but I’m enjoying the slower pace of life: the birdsong, unpolluted skies, walks along the sea, baking experiments and the chance to savour the small things.
As I write this, we should be in France, on our way to our six-month stay in Tuscany. Bookings have been cancelled for our holiday business, plans have been changed and we are settling instead into a summer in Sussex. Life could be far worse and I fully realise that we are very fortunate. We are “doing our thing” by obeying lockdown rules, but it feels lopsided that so many key-workers are literally putting their lives on the line for us. Nevertheless, we will enjoy the little things if we can’t enjoy the big things.
Roses, planted by a previous owner of our house bloom each summer on the walls, but we haven’t had a chance to enjoy them before.
[image error]
They are old-fashioned, highly scented, their intricate folds are velvet to the touch and seem to hide secrets within.
Most of my days in lockdown are spent in writing. I’m about three quarters of the way through the first draft of my next novel and there’s an analogy to be made with the roses and my manuscript. At the moment, I’m telling myself the story. It’s folded in on itself, so how do I get inside the folds of the rose, open the petals in a way that won’t reveal the mysteries too soon to the reader?
I have in my head that I must put the reader first. I want the reader to infer, rather than me tell them everything. I need to avoid clichés, personalise my metaphors, sort out the logic and understand the conflicts of my characters in such a way that the end result seems effortless…
Margaret Atwood describes writing as “wrestling a greased pig in the dark”.
Ashley Stokes in The Creative Writing Coursebook tells me that “plotting is the underside of the stone that no one sees.”[image error]
(missing the Mulino and her stones, but we’ll get there sometime in the future)
James Friel, in the same text book, writes that “the first draft of a novel is allowed to fail.”
And Stendhal said, “Find out what you most want to say and then try very hard not to say it.”
[image error]
I see each of these points like the individual petals of a rose. When it opens up, it will smell divine and look beautiful. (Hopefully – and if that sounds pretentious – so be it. We have to aim high.). During lockdown I have a lot to do!
And why have I given this blog its title, Juxtapose, Just Suppose? Because I am at that stage in my first draft when anything can be possible in my story. I’m constantly asking myself “What If?” and throwing in curve balls. Julie Cohen in her fascinating talk on writing, on Facebook a couple of weeks ago, answered my query about “saggy middles” in novels, suggesting I think about mid-point reversal. A point in the middle of the novel when, suddenly, everything changes: the goals of a main character shift and change and what he/she felt is no longer the way they now feel. Something flips everything and there is a major protagonist shift. Interesting… She is also responsible for all the coloured post-it notes littered across my notice-board… Check her out: she’s an excellent creative writing tutor.
After all, if somebody had said to me that this time this year we would be going through a pandemic, with all the restrictions and tragedies that are happening in its wake, then I would have responded, “Don’t be so daft.”
So, although truth is supposed to be stranger than fiction, then I’m thinking to myself, fiction can be stranger than truth.
Maybe lockdown is giving me too much time to think.
Onwards. And keep safe, everybody.
[image error]
(seen on one of my lockdown walks last week)
April 19, 2020
Getting by…
[image error]I’ve been reading so many positive posts about this weird time and I’ve taken something from all of them.
We’ll get through this, but I wonder if you’re feeling like I am today. Truths are niggling at me and I need to share so that you can shake me out of my blues.
“Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune,
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
Be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
No less than the trees and the stars:
You have a right to be here.”
Extracted from Desiderata by Max Ehrmann (1872-1945)
This weekend we should be entertaining our three Italian friends who were supposed to visit. There were all kinds of plans afoot to share glimpses of the Sussex countryside, take them on visits, introduce them to fish and chips and afternoon tea. We’d also be preparing to return to our home in Italy for the rest of the summer. I’m making do with photos and Facetime instead.
The rug has been pulled out from under us, hasn’t it? It’s a time of uncertainty and questioning. The open door and freedom to travel has been replaced with time to travel within ourselves and to examine our hearts.
[image error]
Being retired, our daily life is not really radically different. We are lucky to own our own home, have food on the table, a garden to sit in and countryside to walk in each day. Our routine is more or less the same although I ache to cuddle my children and grandchildren.
But I can’t stop thinking of the broken and lonely at this time. And the front-line workers. And the way we have been abusing our planet. It is as if our life is being scoured with a Brillo pad, scratching away at all the tarnished bits and revealing what really lies underneath. We lived in Tanzania for three years. I can’t imagine how they will cope with their medical system, how people living in slum conditions can possibly manage social distancing. How are our own homeless faring and victims of abuse confined indoors?[image error]
Let’s share some thoughts on how to go forward and prop each other up with hopeful thoughts, friends. There are glimmers of positive vibes: kindness is blossoming and neighbours are helping each other. The radio Deejays are trying their best to lighten our days, there are amazing people fundraising – including our valiant veteran, Captain Tom Moore, who walked 100 lengths of his garden and raised £23,000,000. Our NHS front-line workers are truly incredible.
I am researching which charities to support and ways of helping others. Your suggestions would be so welcome. We all need help.
In the meantime, I wish you all peace in your hearts.
“Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly…”
From Dreams by Langston Hughes (1902-1967)
[image error]
March 29, 2020
Raindrops and roses…
There’s a lot being written about this strange time. It feels like an episode of science fiction, but we all know it’s reality. I’m trying to concentrate on the positive.
It’s only been one week of semi-lockdown for us here in England and here are a few ideas that have helped me. It would be great if you could share your ideas too in the comment boxes.
• I only listen to the news bulletin once a day and listen to music or birdsong – which is so much more obvious now that traffic is restricted.
• I’ve stuck to a “timetable”, finding a regular slot to write. I am under contract, so I have deadlines to keep. This week, three of us met “virtually” to set aside one hour to write. We used the “pomodoro” method: using a timer to write for one hour and it was comforting to know we were sharing this motivation. [image error]
• I usually play tennis at least three times a week and I’m conscious that I’m spending more hours on my laptop.[image error] My daughter is a chartered physiotherapist and Pilates instructor and she has set up her on-line Pilates classes Her exercises are designed for all ages and abilities. She is offering the classes FREE to anyone who works for the NHS. Contact here here!
• We can’t get to Italy for our six-month stay at the moment. We have a large vegetable garden over there, so yesterday I cleared a flower bed in the front garden of our cottage in Sussex to make way for tomatoes and lettuce. The seeds of my favourite flower, Cosmos, will be planted between and they’re beginning to sprout on my bedroom window sill, like small seeds of hope.[image error]
On our daily walk last week we picked wild nettles and made dumplings to go with stew. I’d never tried this recipe before. Try one new thing each week.[image error]
• Last night about twenty members of our family held a quiz via Zoom. We had to hand paper, pencil and our favourite tipples. It was great to see each other and we switched off for a couple of hours from the C-word. Maurice and I are also trying to help out with a little bit of home-schooling of our young grandchildren via Skype. Topics so far include a little science quiz. I’m compiling a book with them. We plan to come up with a poem each, a puzzle, factoids, jokes and a story and then self-publish as a memento of their strange time away from school. The idea was inspired by my lovely friend Rosemary Noble who, with lots of input from her own young granddaughter, has written a story set in world war 2. A snip at 99 pence and a useful and fun home-schooling resource. Ella Midnight and the Mystery of the Missing Nose
• I have started to phone up older relatives to whom I usually only send a Christmas card. Old fashioned letters are a good idea too (while the post office continues to allow).
• We’re keeping an eye on our ninety-six-year-old neighbour who is bedridden and we’re suddenly aware that there is tremendous community spirit in our little village. Our vicar broadcast the Sunday service this morning from his living room; our new village store, Rassasy Farmshop, called for volunteers to deliver food, befriend the lonely via phone calls, walk dogs… let’s hope that this spirit continues once this is all over. Because it WILL BE OVER – cling on to that thought. [image error]
• Find a place of peace in your house or garden (if you can). Sit and watch the clouds in the sky pass by. Think of the clouds as worries in the distance. As they pass across the sky, think to yourself “these too will pass”.
It goes without saying that we owe the angels in our health service our deepest thanks and respect. I popped a thank you note through the surgery door last week. The politicians need to recognise their ‘amazingness’ not just now, but also when this crisis is over. An increase in wages for nurses and ancillary staff would be a good start.
Tonight, I shall light my Sunday candle in my window, like I did last Sunday, and pray for hope. [image error]
Stay safe, everyone and God bless. xxx
March 12, 2020
Talk the talk…
On Tuesday night I drove up the A24 to Crawley. I’ve only been to Gatwick airport in that area, so it was great to discover Ifield, a little conservation village in the midst of this sprawl of new town and the tiny barn where I was bound.
I’d been invited to take part in the Crawley Wordfest 2020, a festival dedicated to words. I was part of a panel of three authors, interviewed by Sally, journalist and publisher. My thanks to ChindiAuthors, a very supportive, Sussex-based indie author group that I used to belong to until recently, who put my name forward.
We were all “travelling writers” and I joined in with talented Alice Allan who has written a moving novel based on her midwifery experiences in Ethiopia and intrepid Ben Aitken who travelled to Poland on a quest to find out more! (Read his intriguing book to find out more). I’ve dipped into Alice’s book and am already hooked. And Ben’s awaits me – that is if my husband doesn’t nick it first.
[image error]
It was my first experience at being interviewed live like this as an author (It’s never too late!) and none of us knew the questions beforehand. We were asked to introduce ourselves. I don’t like talking about myself and I found that hard. My husband was in the audience (lovely chauffeur and all-round supporter) and gave me a kindly post-mortem afterwards, pointing out the things I’d left out.
But I was more in the swing when it came to talking about my books.
• What inspired me?
• Would I consider writing about anything else other than Italy?
• Why did I write a blog? And would it be an idea to write a book about living in Italy, with recipes and traditions?
• Did I consider myself a travel writer?
Being able to chat more easily about writing, rather than myself, made me think that writers probably hide themselves within their writing. What do you think?
It was so interesting listening to Ben and Alice, both young and at the start of what I’m sure will be brilliant writing careers. I was really taken by their moving and amusing travel stories and I wish them both all the best.
Sales weren’t huge for any of us, but I don’t think that was the main purpose of the evening. It was an opportunity to introduce ourselves to readers. I am with a digital publisher (Bookouture) and so my books do not appear in shops. When a lady in the audience spoke to me at question time, I was delighted when she told me she was actually reading The Tuscan Secret I receive messages on social media about my books, but to meet a reader face-to-face was a special moment.
Thank you so much to Crawley WordFest, run by a dedicated and small group of volunteers. Caroline told me that she was spurred to put on a festival when somebody said there could never be one in Crawley. But that has been proved wrong. Congratulations to the team for your defiance.
Events run until March 31st, so there is still plenty of time to go along and support them. Events range from Open Mic night, a Crime panel (I spied Dorothy Koomson from #RNAon here), a talk by Phil Hewitt – our very own Sussex Arts editor, a Wordfest quiz night, writing sessions and much, much more.
Do try and go!
The programme is available here
And, before I go, my new book is only 99 pence at the moment: The Tuscan Girl
Somebody asked me if my next book would have the title, “The Tuscan Toddler”. The answer is “no” 
March 2, 2020
Walking for inspiration…
Delighted to be featured on my favourite blogger’s site today. I chatted to her about how my walks in the Tuscan countryside give me ideas.
February 26, 2020
#BlogTour: The Tuscan Girl by Angela Perch @Angela_Petch @bookouture @sarahhardy681 #TheTuscanPetch #AngelaPetch #hisfic #Bookouture #5Star
Delighted with this review of my new book – The Tuscan Girl – published yesterday by Bookouture. Another critical review today blasted the title to smithereens, citing that using the word “girl” instead of “woman” in the title, belittled women. Thoughts, please.
Book Synopsis:
She ran away through the pine trees when the soldiers came. Staggering into the hiding place, she felt a fluttering in her belly, like a butterfly grazing its wings, and knew instantly she had something to fight for.
Present day:When her fiancé is tragically killed in an accident,twenty-six-year-old Albais convinced she’s to blame. Heavy with grief and guilt, she flees to her childhood home – the tiny village ofRofelle, nestled in a remote Tuscan valley. Out hiking one day to fill the long, lonely hours, she finds a mahogany box filled with silverware, hidden near the vine-covered ruins of an isolated house left abandoned after World War II. Could finding the rightful owner ease Alba’s heartache, and somehow make amends for her own wrongs?
In search of answers, Alba meetsMassimo,an elderly man who wants to spend his final years pruning his…
View original post 980 more words
February 16, 2020
Bringing sunshine to storms…
What weather we’ve seen in England recently. I feel so sorry for those affected by floods. How miserable.
I’ve been sheltering indoors, listening to the wind sweeping in from the sea, buffeting our house. But I’ve been getting into my next Italian novel, researching about the brave women resistance fighters of Italy and trying not to weigh down my new story with great wodges of information.
I’m also preparing for February 25th – publication day for my second novel with Bookouture. The Tuscan Girl
[image error]
On March 10th, my first “baby, The Tuscan Secret ,will be published in HUNGARY 
February 9, 2020
Don’t put off until tomorrow …
It’s been a while since I blogged, so hello again.
It’s been quite a week.
Sadly, it started with the funeral of a dear schoolfriend. It was such a shock and as I have moved house (and country) so often, we’d lost touch in the last five years. One of the photos on the service sheet smiled back at me: an image of her posing on a Tuscan mountainside when, as giddy twenty-year-olds she had come to stay with me for a while during my third year at university in Florence. Another showed us shivering in our school sports kit on a muddy pitch somewhere and there was one of her prancing about the stage in our VIth Form panto as the fairy godmother… I was cross with myself for not keeping in touch. She was such fun and too young to go and it was a sobering reminder that nothing lasts forever.
[image error]
Lovely Monica spreading fairy godmother gold dust
So, the next day I set off for a long-awaited writing weekend, run by Alison May, (Chairwoman of the fab RNA) in a comfortable Midlands Hotel. I was determined to make the most of it after the sadness of the previous day. I knew little about this part of England but, we were so busy with writing matters, it wouldn’t have mattered where we were.
I’m so glad I went. It was great not to have to lift a hand to prepare any meals and to luxuriate in an enormous bed all to myself where I was the only one snoring, but the advice shared by Alison was a gift. I hope to go next year too.
There should be a new term for us writers who are somewhere between pantser and plotter. Any suggestions?
The information we discussed in the group about structuring our novels was just what I needed. You will have to attend one of Alison’s excellent courses and for details of her “tool kit”, as she described it, but I came away regenerated, enthused and greatly encouraged. And it was very timely too. I signed a new contract for two more books with Bookouture (yay!) and am at the beginning stages of my new novel. 
December 20, 2019
Granny goes up to London…
Once upon a time, I was a commuter and worked in London for The Times, but that was almost a lifetime ago and it felt like a different world when I visited the capital city again.
Yesterday morning, excited, boots polished and feeling very “grown-up”, I took the train from our seaside town up to Victoria station to visit my young and lovely editor at Bookouture in Holborn. [image error]
It was a delightful day, starting with meeting the enterprising couple who had set up their coffee van outside Goring-by-Sea station. Good luck to Blue Brew – they’re available to hire for events as well.
[image error] [image error]
It continued with the cheery lady selling railway tickets and dispensing chocolates to travellers. I approved of her charity book stall in the cosy waiting room. Books help make the world go round.
This shameless hussy of an author dished out cards with author details twice before arriving at Victoria: one to a passenger who was interested in buying Mavis and Dot as she is suffering from cancer herself (all proceeds for sales go to Cancer Research and yesterday we donated £556 from sales and more will come from gift aid. Thank you to everyone who has bought a copy.) The other card went to a couple sitting opposite me whilst I was working on notes for my next Tuscan novel. Small world: they saw the word “Tuscany” and told me they were flying that afternoon to stay with their daughter who lives in Bagni di Lucca. Interested in my books, I told them about another author, Katy Johnson, and her Tuscan stories. Books link people.
I have a sore foot at the moment and once I was spewed out of the train and into the throng on the platform, I felt bewildered as I limped along. This country girl is not used to bustle and everybody is in a hurry in London. But I couldn’t hurry. And nobody seemed to smile. I decided to smile at people, but I think they thought I was a weirdo. The only smile I received was from a girl with eyebrows (you know what I mean – this new fashion for painted brows) – but I think hers was just a fixed, surprised expression. On one side of High Holborn was a beautiful flower stall, and on the other, a soggy tent in the rain where a homeless person slept as everybody rushed by. To be fair, the helper at the underground had smiled at me. Who knew that you could flash your credit card on the yellow thingy at the turnstile, and that it was cheaper than buying a ticket? I think his smile was compassionate.
Meeting Ellen in the smart restaurant was fun. We had met face to face at the busy RNA Conference last July, but we normally communicate via email, phone and in tracking comments (for editing purposes), so it was good to take time and talk. A short walk afterwards to the Bookouture offices in their swanky new premises in Bloomsbury Way (highly suitable address for a publisher) and I met other members of the Bookouture team, as well as the CEO Oliver Rhodes – all hard at work. They call themselves a family and it really feels that way to me. I feel cared for, encouraged and inspired as they guide me through the editing processes towards publication and I feel so grateful to be on their books.
Their taking care of all the bits that I get myself in a twist about (formatting, cover design and marketing) means that I can concentrate on writing. My new cover for the next new book will be ready soon, and I can’t wait to see it.
Tired, but happy, Granny hobbled back to the underground and was lucky to find a seat on the sardine-packed train. Behind me was an Italian, nattering into his phone on a business call and, when he had finished, I told him I could tell from his accent that he was Florentine. It’s very distinctive; they swallow their “c”. Italy is never far away from me.
I just wish I had accepted one of the Christmas cakes sent by one of the authors, that Ellen had offered me. I could have munched on it while I edited on the train, but Granny was trying not to be greedy.
[image error]Happy Christmas, everybody! Now, back to the edits.
