R.K. Pavia's Blog, page 2

Self-Teaching an Old Dog

As I’ve gotten older (I say that as a woman a few days from forty), I’ve taught myself a few things. Things I’d never have dreamed I could have even attempted, let alone become reasonably proficient at.

 

The Old Dog’s New Skills.

In the past five or six years I’ve learnt to use Photoshop – to good effect – using it to edit my photos after I’d also taught myself to use a DSLR camera.

Prize Winning Photo

And to create stuff like this – for no apparent reason.

 

Alongside Photoshop, I also taught myself to use 3D software called Poser, creating the cover for my fantasy novel, The Sanctum of Souls.

Got there after many attempts.

And pictorial aides to writing, such as this main character from the aforementioned fantasy novel.

 

A while after my foray into digital stuff, I taught myself to make jewellery, successfully selling a few pieces along the way.

Sold this one.

And just lately, I’ve taught myself to knit – though, sadly my great-nan, who’d tried to teach me as a child, didn’t live to see this achievement. It’s worth noting I taught myself this basic knitting via YouTube tutorials and just a fortnight later had made my first ever scarf.

Alright, I can only make lame scarves – for now.

I also had a go at card-making, but fear not, there’ll be no pictures of that disaster. I’m not good at everything.

 

The Trouble With Old Dogs

Now, I don’t know if it’s just me, but the trouble with learning all these crafts seems to be my ability to retain the skills I’ve acquired.

Having flitted between all my new ‘hobbies’ – interspersed with writing my novel, and collating/publishing various poetry books – each one I’ve come back to, with the exception of Photoshop, is almost like learning the craft all over again. As the title of this blog implies, I’m assuming this is something to do with getting older.

Before I got into jewellery making, selling my camera to afford all the enticing sparkly things online, I knew all the terminology, tricks, settings, etc. that made a half-decent photographer. When I once again got bored with said new interest, and sold all the jewellery findings (see, learnt the terms for that craft, too) to buy a new camera… wham, bam, all gone! It was almost as if I’d even picked up anything beyond a compact, let alone was capable of winning competitions.

Lately, I’ve attempted to get back into the jewellery – and yet again, I’m finding it challenging.

At a loose end during my enforced ‘resting’ (otherwise known as feeling crap) due to chemotherapy, I thought I’d try to make a bracelet for my upcoming birthday night out. I’d many months previously restocked my supply of findings, but after many attempts and fails at creating anything, had stashed the goody chest back into the depths of ‘lost interest hell’.

So, I dragged the tub out again, rummaged my way to some teal and purple ‘pretties’ and set to work. Well, my fingers ached, my tools were too small, I’d forgotten how to wind the metal – all excuses, perhaps, but basically, it wasn’t as easy as I remembered.

I finally managed to bring this piece together, but however the reasonably well-edited photo makes it look, it falls far short of what I used to be capable of.

I mean I’m happy with it, but I’m just wondering, where did my that old dog that learnt so well go?

So, what are your thoughts? Do we learn easily as we get older, but not retain so well? Are old dogs just lame causes – with pitiable attention spans?

Would love to read your take on this.

 

Invasion of the Cats

I don’t have any pets of my own. I’ve tried, many times, as I adore animals – dogs being my favourites, but I  also like cats, birds, horse, fish, guinea pigs, reptiles, rats… and goats. The trouble with me is I have OCD so, much as I yearn to have a pet or six, my mental health issue really does make that a practical impossibility. I’ve learned this after many failed pet-ownerships, regretting it deeply every time I’ve had to disappoint my children and say goodbye to an animal that had almost become a member of the family – though please note I didn’t leave it so long an unbreakable bond was formed, and I did make sure said animal found a forever home.

Anyway, back to the title of this post. Who needs pets when my back garden has rapidly become the local playing field and meeting point for a number of cats. And I’m not just talking one or two here, either. In the past, that has been the height of my cat-gathering. However, it seems that these days, any cat worth his salt has made my garden his personal place of choice.

Longest serving cat invader

There are two in particular that, despite my misgivings about my garden no longer being feasibly allowed to be called ‘mine’, are quite endearing. Both ginger, they follow each other everywhere. The paler of the two is a little shy, but the classic, orange ginger frequently peers in my living room French-doors and my kitchen window, brazenly scanning the interior for anything that may be worthy of cat investigation – and thus, not really ‘mine’ either.

Orange is the new black.

Of course, none of these cats are quite so endearing when they are knocking over plant pots, ornaments, and other such niceties, or finding places to crap that aren’t conducive to pleasant outside time for humans. Nor when they are fighting with the one I’ve imaginatively christened the ugly, matted, black and white terrorist. He causes the most trouble – and conveniently, doesn’t stick around long enough for an incriminating photo.

Still, for an animal-lover that can’t have pets, I’m growing fond of my cat invasion. Now, if only I could add a few of the other animals I’ve listed to the mix. I’m sure a goat and a horse would fit in just fine.

“I’m the shy one – honest.”

World Poetry Day 2016

Yes, it’s come around again (how fast time flies), that annual celebration that all seven-billion people on the planet honour by making everything they say rhyme…

Yeah, alright, perhaps not ALL seven-billion.

Anyway, here’s my contribution to this great day – an impromptu, off the cuff, fly by the seat of my pants poem, just for you.

There once was a human called Peg

Who had an incredible leg

It went on for ages

In twelve separate stages

With a foot that was shaped like an egg.

Okay, that was, strictly speaking, a limerick, but hey, don’t judge me.

So, there you have it, me doing my bit for world rhyming. Let’s see what you’ve got. Feel free to post your poetry in the comments.

Oh, and as it’s relevant, I’ve also just published my complete poetry collection, The Doorway: and other poems. Buy it in the UK here, and in the US here.

Why Pinterest is the Best Social Media Site

And one from my daughter.

ModCull

And why it’s not just for creative folks.

Okay, okay. I’ll start off by clarifying that Pinterest is not technically a social media site. I’m not sure exactly what you’d class it as, but no, it’s not really social media. It is, however, a pretty great website, and here’s why.

Most people assume that Pinterest is only for creative types – whether it’s cooking, DIY, or artistic stuff – or pretentious teenage girls who think they’re retro and cool because they saved that one picture of a Nirvana t-shirt. Interestingly enough, the majority of people would be right, in a sense. Pinterest is indeed made – and marketed – for creative people and aesthetic-hoarding teenage girls. However, it’s more than that, too.

I do my fair share of drawing. I’m not great at it, but because I do it at all, Pinterest is helpful for me in a number of ways…

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A Fresh Start

Much as I’m hugely proud of my very first self-published book, The Soul Bearer, and I’ll always be grateful for each and every one of its twenty-five reviews, the time has come to retire both it and my other poetry books.

Yes, I’m doing the unthinkable and taking my first three books out of print.

It’s really not such a crazy idea. I was using the name ‘Bex Pavia’ for those early books and I no longer use that name. My fantasy novel is written as R.K. Pavia and I’d like the cohesion of having a poetry collection published under that name, too. I also have a children’s picture book published (The Story of the Snowman) using Bex, and I’ll be keeping that name for other children’s books planned for the future.

It really does make sense, see?

So, now that’s clear, I’m currently compiling, formatting, and proofing my soon to be published poetry collection, The Doorway: and other poems.

This process actually feels cathartic. It’s a fresh start, a new beginning, a shedding of skin – and I like it.

This new book includes most of my previously published poems with a scattering of new ones. I hope to draw in some of the loyal readers of my old books and, with its swanky new cover and eclectic mix of poetry, perhaps a few new, soon-to-be-loyal readers.

One accolade that will always make me proud is that, through my rhyming verse I’ve managed to turn some who’ve never been interested in poetry into those who have a new-found interest in it. Maybe this book can achieve that once more. Maybe not – but it will be fun to find out.

REVIEW: The King’s Sword by C. J. Brightley

 

 

I absolutely loved this book. Some have said that as a coming of age story, it doesn’t achieve that. I couldn’t agree less. Mainly as I don’t see it as a coming of age story. Yes, there is an element of that, but for me the real center of this tale is Kemen Sendoa, the person from whose point of view the story is told.

It is a testament to the author’s writing ability that I instantly heard Kemen’s voice in my head. I lived his life through his words and felt as if I really knew him within very few pages.

Description was perfect in that it adequately took me into the author’s imagined world without overdoing it at all.

I loved the politics of the world, all of which were touched upon, but not so overpowering as to detract from the characters. In fact, they served to enhance the characters combined with the author’s use of blissfully simple narrative.

Another criticism I’ve read is that the characters ‘could do no wrong’. Personally, I think if you’ve read it that way, you’ve totally missed the angle this book was coming from. It is an intimate portrayal of a man and his new-found charge; how he gets to know him, while WE get to know the man. If you’re expecting darkly twisted characters, then this is not the book for you. I for one adored Kemen. He was a character I could believe in. If that meant he could do no wrong, then I obviously like ‘perfect’ characters. I wold say it’s more that I am happy to read about a ‘normal’ person recounting their life as if I’m the only person in the room. But perhaps that’s just me.

The end did rush at me a bit, but that was more because I had got so spirited away walking alongside Kemen Sendoa that I was sad to discover the book was actually coming to an end. I think there could have been a slightly slower build up, but it did not have a negative impact on my overall enjoyment.

In summary, this was a nicely paced book, refreshingly devoid of a plot that takes itself too seriously. It didn’t try to be something it wasn’t and would appeal to those that yearn for something that won’t bog them down with ‘too much’ of anything.

ONLY criticisms – and these are minor and again, not distracting – a small handful of missed typos, duplicated words, and sometimes, a bit of a habit of telling the reader something just a tad too much. Information which the author obviously felt important was repeated now and then. But again, I was easily able to let that pass as this book generally oozed quality writing.

Because I simply can’t say goodbye to Kemen Sendoa, I shall be reading the next two books asap.

Buy it here: UK – http://amzn.to/1UC1U6s  US – http://amzn.to/1VeYZBx

Writing Advice: Don’t Bother – Unless it’s this bit

I call myself a writer. I don’t know if that’s true, or if I’m just some wannabe trying to convince people I know what I’m doing. I mean, the latter would be true for most aspects of my life, after all.

But, if we take it as a given that I am, in fact, a writer, then maybe I’m qualified to give the following piece of advice.

Don’t listen to advice about writing.

WHAT? How very dare you? What on earth do you think you’re doing saying such heathen things. Get back in that amateur cave from which you slithered, fiend!

Whoa there, pleasant folk. Hold your horses. I come from a good place, I swear to thee. What I’m simply saying is this. There is so much ‘advice’ to be found, lurking behind dark corners of the interwebs, waiting to pounce on poor unsuspecting writers in training, slashing their throats just as they think they might actually be good at their favoured craft. It makes no difference if you try to avoid it, it will find you. It stealthily swoops (and swooping is bad) down upon those with a book or two in them and cuts through their confidence until there’s nothing left but the tattered remains of an ego.

Yet, it doesn’t have to be so. Not everyone can be a writer, and writing is not for everyone, but if you think you have it within you to write, then follow your own instincts, carve your own path, and those demonic words of wisdom some ‘in the know’ fling about will bounce off you like you’re wearing your very own, made-to-measure suit of advice-repelling armour.

“OK, I’m ready. Where’s that keyboard?”

Now, I’m not saying I, or you, know more than anyone else. That would just be an exercise in vanity. I’m simply urging you to believe in yourself enough to take in what you need and discard what you know/feel you don’t. Trust yourself to write how you see fit. Know that your voice is important in writing and realise that too much advice can lead you away from it. There is no right or wrong way to write, no magic set of rules to perfection. Your work will be judged, there’s no doubt about that, but let it be for the words crafted within it and not for how much advice you did or did not heed. There’s self-respect in that.

I’ve been writing for most of my life. It took me three years to write my fantasy novel. I’ve come across my fair share of advice in that time. At first, I wanted to follow it all. I put aside my feelings of confusion over conflicting wisdoms and I seriously tried to write the way people said I should. I attempted various methods and abided by various ‘rules’, all the while finding the creative craft of writing becoming, well, less and less creative. I found I was losing my voice and was projecting the voice of others. In short, it didn’t work. It also made me feel I was constantly trying to live up to a bar I couldn’t reach. The bad part, it could well have put me off writing altogether. And that’s what concerns me when I see young/fledgling writers walking that same early road. Perhaps one or two may come across this blog and choose to only follow one piece of advice – ironically, the one advocated by me.

 

The One About Cancer

So, let’s get the ‘big’ issue out the way first. I have cancer. Cervical cancer, which, for those of you who like more instantly recognisable imagery, is cancer of the doodad, the vag area, the nether regions – you get the idea.

To be honest, I hate talking about cancer, so when I titled this entry I really did mean the ‘one‘ about cancer. I have no intention of droning on about it on my blog. It’s taking up too much of my life as it is, without allowing it to take over here, too. It’s a nuisance I have to endure, nothing more. To give it airtime gives it power… and nothing has that kind of power over me.

That said, this is the blog post where I give you a little insight into what’s going on. Once that’s done, I’ll only mention it if entirely relevant or necessary.

Going back to January of 2014, I was diagnosed with this illness and I believe I cried, probably more than once. It was a tough thing to hear, obviously. I was told my cancer was of the slightly less common variety, adenocarcinoma, (trust me to be different) and thus a bit more aggressive. But no worries, it was at stage 2A2 (not too advanced) and the docs were confident some mild chemo (which I couldn’t continue with as one round sent my balance into roller-coaster mode) and a course of radiotherapy would cure it.

Apparently not.

Jump forwards to February 2016 and the damn thing had metastasized to my para-aortic lymph nodes. For the medically uninitiated, that’s bad! It gets into the lymphatic system and it can travel anywhere in your body. It’s like a creepy, little goblin stealthing its way around the caves of Mount Splorg, every now and then finding a dark spot to deposit a bit of its, grotesque little self. Ugh!

Anyway, it’s at this point I get told I have a time limit – 18-24 months to be precise (and remember, I don’t want to talk about it). Cue more crying.

But, as you may be beginning to realise, I’m not the kind of person to accept what I’m told. And I definitely don’t do giving up. I did all the crying I needed to do… then I got on with it. I smiled, remembered I’m a positive soul, and just… got on with it.

Of course, I stole a horse, assassinated David Cameron, and went on an all-expenses-paid trip to Narnia first. Hang on, did I? Erm, I think… wait, no, that was just a dream.

Now, I’m half way through some real aggressive chemotherapy. But, though my hair is gone, and my eyebrows and eyelashes aren’t far behind, and I jump every time I walk past a mirror,  I’m dealing with it okay. It’s not easy. There are six days of feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck then sent rolling down a huge hill, with my arms and legs tied to a tree stump. However, once those days are done, it gets better, not normal, but better, and I have a couple of weeks before it all starts again.

The doc says this chemo won’t cure it. The treatment is labelled as palliative for that very reason. Well, you know what? That just makes me cross – because now, every medical person I come into contact with talks to me in that saccharin-sweet way that says ‘I know you won’t be here very long, so I’ll talk to you like you’re five’.

Aw, I know they mean well, but seriously, I can’t forget it’s there when they do that – and it doesn’t go down too well when I respond with a burp, followed by a repetitive, whiny request for sweets and ice cream.

I tell you what, though. One thing to come out of all this (there are actually many things, but I’m bored of writing about it now) I’ve discovered I like my ears. I’ll just leave that one with you.

 

 

 

 

http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=15404&picture=angry-woman

https://imgflip.com/i/l8lg9

And So It Begins.

I’ve somehow managed to avoid blogging. Until today I suppose I saw no real need to engage in such a self-indulgent waste of time. What changed? I hear you ask. What made such a godly soul decide to partake in the woefully self-centered activities of the mere common folk? I hear you cry. Let’s just ignore, for a moment, the fact that I’m apparently hearing voices; strangely eloquent voices from the early 18th century… apparently.

Anyway, the thing that made today that one ‘special day’ for starting a blog? Selfies. That’s right, the seemingly unrelated act of taking selfies seems to have tripped some kind of ‘let’s join the human race’ switch in my brain, leading me to the thing I’m doing now – writing rubbish for no one to read.

So, what do I intend to do with this ‘ere blog ‘o’ mine? (and yes, I am just going to leave that ‘selfie’ reason hanging there with no explanation). Well, I thought it was high time people saw just how the mind of a crazy person works. In this blog I shall endeavour to show you my inner, and outer, weirdness in all its shining glory. You’ll take a walk with me through all that it means to be a weirdo, as far as I’m concerned. Share my views, my musings, my ponderings, my philosophications (I just made that there word up), and anything else that means ‘thoughts on stuff’.

As a self-published author, I’ll also share stuff (you’ll quickly learn, I like the word ‘stuff’) relating to my books. I shall, of course, be surreptitiously trying to get you to buy said books – but we’ll say no more about that.

Basically, I’m a weirdo, as the title of this blog infers. I don’t have a problem with that, though some folk I’ve crossed paths with seem to think it’s the best way to insult me, showing how little they ever really knew me to begin with. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not some crazed lunatic, howling at the moon – well, only on Sundays. I’m simply ‘different’ from most folk. I’m not the kind of person that makes friends easily – nor wants to. You don’t invite me to your wedding, your birthday party, or your pub crawl. Certainly not the latter, as I don’t drink. I mean, I’d be a cheap friend to take along, but I’d also be that one that made you feel awkward as you downed your sixth vodka and coke while I sat there spinning a beer mat and looking for the toilets.

Well, that’s an introduction… I think. Is there a ‘standard for such things? Have I ignored the first of twelve rules of blog introduction etiquette?

Hmmm. *Goes away to quietly ponder the existence of blog etiquette.*

 

 

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