Sue Vincent's Blog: Echoes of Life, page 1042

How to make a living as a writer

It wasn’t her real name, of course, but close enough. An author’s nom de plume. Still, seeing it at the end of the printed article gave her a thrill. Every time. I felt the same way when that first magazine dropped through the letterbox with my name at the end of the article. Like mother, like daughter. There was a pride in that, hard to put into words.

It was, for both of us, so many years apart, a small thing… but to a writer it means the world.

I am not a million-dollar author with a major publishing house, I am not even a respectably sized fish in that particular pond. But I am a writer.

It took me a long time to call myself that, to ‘own’ it, as a friend said the other day. My Mum was a writer…she had things printed all over the place. I just wrote things. Even when ‘The Mystical Hexagram’, written with Gary Vasey came out, published by a publisher, I still didn’t feel right about calling myself an author.

You see, I grew up in a house with an Author… one who actually attained the Holy Grail… she made a living from her work. I knew the system. Long hours hunched over the ancient Imperial typewriter, later succeeded by a more portable affair. Always coffee, occasionally turning the typewriter upside down to shake out the fallen cigarette ash and biscuit crumbs. Pages thrust at me to read… red pen…retype. Long, involved discussions… we’d call it brainstorming today… about how the plot should unfold. My mother, you see, is a storyteller.

She had always written. Starting with poetry, she had penned her first novel when I was very young, largely because the title came to her and she had to write the book. Two other novels followed. Stories I adored as I grew old enough to appreciate them. Later there were children’s tales. Each manuscript when finished would be placed in a big manila envelope, signed across all the seals and posted back to our home to get the postmarked date… the only way to protect copyright back then. Every so often, when she could afford the postage, she would duly type a letter to a publisher, package up a copy of the MS and post it off in hope with a stamped return envelope. And every time the book came back with a rejection letter.

Meanwhile Mum was writing articles and short stories, trawling through the Writers and Artists Year Book that was renewed every year and sending them off. Sometimes there would be a whoop of excitement as she opened the envelope that held a cheque. Most times she packaged the story back up for its next tentative voyage.

This went on for years… most of my childhood in fact. Over those years Mum wrote several stories in Yorkshire dialect; amusing pieces showing the archetypal character of our home county, entitled ‘Dahn at t’ Pig and Whistle’. One of these pieces landed on a desk and there was a letter… an invitation to write and record a Radio series for the BBC. Those were exciting times for my mother and we all gathered round the radio for each broadcast in shades of an older time.

But of course, the series ended all too soon and she was back to the typewriter once more. More articles were sent out, tons more rejection slips were received. Still her novels had not been published and gradually they were sent out less and less often. She had tried for ten years with no success. But she didn’t give up.

One day, she had a letter. One of her stories, sent to a women’s publication, had ended up, quite by accident, on the wrong desk. The letter was from the occupant of that desk, Ian Forbes. The content of my mother’s article was totally unsuitable for the publications he managed… but he had read it anyway and liked her style. Would she like to try something a bit different?

Mr Forbes… or Uncle Ian as he became affectionately known…ran publications many of my generation may remember. He had sent samples scripts of what he would need. My mother sat down to study them. She didn’t write romance… it wasn’t her thing, but, she decided, she’d give it a go. The fee was too good to refuse.

For the next few years, until I left England for France, we would sit every month batting ideas around like tennis balls, backwards and forwards. Every month a cheque and a copy of the latest Love Story in pictures would be delivered. The author’s names did not appear on these little magazines. I only have one copy now, stored amid the family papers… a supernatural tale set in Egypt which we had written together.

I learned a lot about the writer’s craft back then, some of the stories she wrote were even my idea initially and my first bit of design was featured in one tale called, I believe, Lucky Blue Dress. I learned how to collaborate back then too, I suppose, as well as how to tell a complex story in few words and images… which has served us well lately with the publication of the new graphic novel, Mister Fox.

I learned other things too.

My mother had spent a lifetime following her dream and when it finally arrived, bringing that monthly cheque equivalent to a woman’s wage back then, it did not resemble the dream she thought she had. I learned how little it actually matters whether or not you get public recognition…like your name on the cover… as long as you have put your heart and soul into what you do, because you love what you do. I learned that you could take an unpromising vehicle… for so my mother saw love stories… and incorporate something meaningful; her stories always had a moral and the type of motherly teaching that young people need woven into them. Even a lightweight love story could have depth.

I saw that it wasn’t enough to have talent, nor a gift for the use of words. Nor was it enough to be patient or to be doggedly pursuing something for a decade with single minded dedication. You could do everything right and still not succeed. You also need that single stroke of luck… and the persistence and faith to keep on keeping on so that if it arrives, you are ready to seize the opportunity. Because one thing is certain… had my mother stopped writing the opportunity would never have arisen.

My mother’s novels have not yet been published. But they will be. I’ll do it myself. One of her children’s stories, Monster Magic, is now in print and the phone call I had when she received the first copies in the post was as full of excitement as I can ever remember. It was the very first ‘proper book’ she had held in her hands with her name on the cover. And when I told her she had to send one to the British Library…! She has waited all my life and most of hers for that.

All ready for the edited manuscript

My mother stopped writing many years ago. It doesn’t erase a single word of what she has written. Her stories may be from an older, gentler time. They may never sell a copy except to the family. But that really doesn’t matter. She wrote because she loved what she did. She wrote because the words inside her needed to find the page. She wrote from the hidden heart of her even when the vehicle wasn’t what she would have chosen. She made it hers. For some years my mother made a living as a writer. But more importantly perhaps, for a lifetime her writing has made her live.

You see, my mother is a writer. And so am I.

Brightness

Five Star Treatment – The Initiate by Sue Vincent and Stuart France

Sue Vincent:

Thank you to Sally Cronin at Smorgasbord for having Stuart and I over today :)

Originally posted on Smorgasbord - Variety is the spice of life:

Welcome to the Five Star Treatment and today The Initiate by Sue Vincent and Stuart France.  A winning collaboration and deserving of the many terrific reviews, not just for this book and previous works but also their new release Mister Fox, The Legend which also looks amazing. But first… The Initiate.

About the Book

Imagine wandering through an ancient landscape wrought in earth and stone, exploring the sacred sites of peoples long ago and far away in time and history. The mounds and barrows whisper legends of heroes and magic, and painted walls sing of saints and miracles.

Now imagine that the lens of the camera captures a magical light in soft blues and misty greens and gold. A light that seems to have no cause in physical reality. What would you do? If you were open to the possibility of deeper realities, perhaps you would wish to explore…

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The demon list…

I went to bed at half past one,

The list was almost halfway done

But then, it only lists by item…

Some jobs last ad infinitum.

Though that mid-point is false you see

But the illusion comforts me…

I can at least head off to bed

Without to-do lists in my head.

The list is long and just keeps growing

And there is no way of knowing

What will join the urgent pile

If I should let stuff wait awhile.

I have to be back up by six

To give the hound her morning fix

Of cool spring air and smells that lurk

Before I have to leave for work.

But could I sleep? No, could I hell,

My thoughts upon that list would dwell

No matter what I did or thought

My mind kept turning back to ‘ought’.

So first, I tried to meditate,

And sent my conscious thoughts to wait

Where silent peace has made its vow

Within the chamber of ‘not now’.

But did it work? For once, oh no,

My thoughts to silence would not go,

I shot the clock a narrowed look,

Then gave in and reached for a book.

But could I concentrate? Not yet.

I realised, with some regret

My thoughts, regardless of the time,

Just played around with silly rhyme.

And so, at half past two or three,

Just picture this… disgruntled me,

The bedside light switched on again

Armed with a notepad and a pen.

(And no, I know that doesn’t rhyme,

But at this dark, unheard of time

An assonance will do just fine,

For just one small and measly line.)

I tried again, and then gave in,

Insomnia was going to win.

By four, I caved and just got up,

And headed for the coffee cup.

Downstairs the dog already waited,

Eagerness all unabated,

Ready for her morning run

And wanting me to share the fun.

There on the desk the demon lay,

The new to-do list for the day;

So please excuse me while I write…

I’d really like to sleep tonight!

A weekend of ancient magic…

Egypt – 1279 BCE
A clash of Ancient Egyptian magic and ruthless power

in the Silent Eye’s 2015 Spring Workshop
The River of the Sun

24-26 April, 2015
A magical journey to explore the ancient

meaning of life and self in a time of hazard

A magical temple of a very different nature . . .

a mixture of ritual drama and workshop discussions

magical work, camaraderie and quite a bit of fun . . .

All are welcome… please join us for a magical weekend in the Derbyshire Dales. A full brochure, including details of the event, prices and booking form are available on The Silent Eye website.

A printable version of the brochure can be downloaded here:

Brochure, price list and Booking Form for River of the Sun 2015

Flight

Norman stone at Tissington

There has been a sacred site at Tissington since before recorded history. It goes back to Celtic worship, through the Saxons, and to the Normans. The tower and parts of the church are from this latter period, making them a thousand years old. The tower, with its walls four feet thick and its ancient window, must have seen much history from their vantage point on the snowdrop-covered mound.

I’d been here before, but I had forgotten about the doorway, being intent on getting inside. It had come as a surprise the first time too. I’ve seen a fair few Saxon and Norman carvings since then, but this is still pretty strange. There are no scenes of beasts or the mythical depictions we are used to. You might even miss the strangeness, so plain it seems at first glance. But look closer.

In the centre of the simple patterned semicircle a cross is inset with the small carved blocks, but it is the two figures that catch your attention. They are crudely carved, far more so than the deep reliefs we have seen. Very simple in style, almost like a child’s drawing. They stand, one either side of the thousand year old arch, arms akimbo, watching.

At first glance, we thought of the Twins again, a theme that keeps cropping up lately. But there are differences. Perhaps not twins, but two sides of One thing? The one on the right is slightly taller and wears a longer robe. He seems more severe in his expression, or perhaps quizzical, than his smaller companion with his knee length coat and an unmistakeable smile. You cannot help but wonder to what the masons who carved them were making allusion. What story were they telling? A Christian tale from the Bible, or something older that lingered in the hearts and minds of the local people?

Inside the little church is a peaceful place of old wood, graceful arches and treasures of times long gone by. The chancel arch separates the nave from the altar, lit by three bright and relatively modern windows, though my favourite remains the depiction of the rainbow and the Ark.

Throughout the church there are monuments and traces of the Fitzherbert family who have held Tissington Hall and the village for centuries. The most impressive is the tiered 17thC memorial to the north of the chancel arch, with its kneeling portraits of Francis and his family. I have to wonder about another story, one I am still trying to research. Why the upraised fist? I can make a few wild guesses at the symbolism but what is the story? And more to the point, what is behind that blue crescent?Of course, it was the Norman font we had really come to see. It stands in front of the organ near the base of the tower, a simple, unattractive and ancient bowl… at first glance, anyway. But again, look a little closer… The last time I had been here I had been unable to do so as the organ repairers were on site and working there. It was almost impossible to get a really good luck. This time, however, there would be no impediment.

The carvings may occupy us for some time to come. A pair of figures yet again, standing side by side. Follow the design round and there are large and ferocious beasts with strange tails… lions, perhaps, carved by someone who had never seen one? Or stylised wolves? Following the design, one beast captures a delicate deer whose head is in its maw. A bird flees its grasp, further round there is another beast, and this one holds a human head in its mouth.

Now what story are we looking at here? Because they were stories… myths, legends, pagan and Christian… Saxon, Norse and Norman stories all seem portrayed in these ancient artefacts. We, of course do not have the certainty or knowledge to say this is what they were saying. We can do the research, learn what the experts may think, but ultimately these images, like the very architecture of these sacred places, were designed to speak without words to something deeper than logic. By looking and trying to join the dots of missing centuries, perhaps we may come closer without knowledge to a truer understanding. Sometimes I think, we think too much.

Dear Wen XVIII

Originally posted on Stuart France:

Dear Wen…

Yes, great to see ‘The Legend…’ making its way in the world. It looks fabulous, if I say so myself… I have remembered where the strange recipe like description came from. It was inspired by ‘Lights’. The one regret would be that we didn’t have enough pictures and unequivocal to explore in more detail the movements of the dances. We did a little with ‘Stellar’ and ‘The Jig’ of course but ‘Standing Stones’ ‘The Three Magicians’ and ‘Jump at the Sun’ would have been interesting…and would have extended the mythology somewhat…

I wonder if your disturbing dream had anything to do with reading the draft of Chapter Five over the other weekend…

The ‘devouring beast’ is perplexing isn’t it, as the ‘beheading theme’ was initially I suppose…But to have it on a font… first gleanings… it has to do with inner and outer again. The font actually is…

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Ancient

Through The Mists

Originally posted on The Silent Eye:

We were out before daylight again this morning, the dog and I. The human half of this pre-dawn duo gratefully shrouded in a padded coat and borrowed flat cap, looking rather like Bibendum.  The smaller, but more energetic half bounding along joyfully, breathing steam like a miniature dragon. A resilient creature, carrying frost on the wafting tail and whiskers, in, I realised, a resilient landscape.

We walked down the lane towards the hamlet of Wormstone, so tiny it gets a mere one liner in Wikipedia. Parish records indicate the name is derived from the Old English for Wærmund’s farm, but I prefer to dream and wonder if there was an older, more interesting story of dragons and sacred stones behind the name. And why not? Man has always dreamed and wondered.

Still, even the name Wærmund takes the history back well over a thousand years, and I crossed the path…

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