Last publicity before the little white dot

On this last day of the year, as well as wishing you all the best for the next one, I’d like to thank everyone who has visited or followed this blog, and liked, commented on and encouraged the poetry and prose posts. Writing is a pleasure and I wouldn’t do anything else, but trying to convince others to invest their time and money in one’s writing is a loathsome exercise. Anything that makes a body feel more like a creep is hard to imagine.

Having said that, if we don’t advertise ourselves, we might have the self-righteous satisfaction of the pure and unsullied, but we won’t make it as an author. So, I’m going to squirm and wriggle and remind people that I have written quite a few books and if you like what you’ve read on this blog you might like the novels too.

Don’t waste your time this evening, go over to Wild Geese Books and see what’s on offer. There are even free stories to get you hooked.

 

Flying geese.

 

Microfiction challenge The child: the entries

This must be the prompt that has produced the most diverse reactions of any prompt so far. The child is such a sensitive subject; we have all been touched by slightly different chords, but all very profound. Special congratulations to those of you who changed their story arc to suit the prompt.

Louise’s story could be a myth. Be prepared for a surprise.

https://fantasyraconteur.wordpress.com/2016/07/22/dragon-child/

 

Ken’s story evokes contradictory sentiments for me. It should be fuzzy and warm, but I can’t help feeling worried by the end.

I Suppose a Kick in the Butt is Better than a Kick in the Head | rivrvlogr

 

Kat managed by using a very clever ploy to fit the image prompt into her story.

Seasoning – Part 3 | like mercury colliding…

 

Sarah’s on-going story veers off in an unexpected and unsettling direction with this one.

Stella Morris Investigates! – Micro Fiction for Jane Dougherty – episode 3 | fmme writes poems

 

Michael (Morpethroad) This story seems to need a continuation. I hope tomorrow’s prompt will provide it!

Microfiction challenge #6:The child – Marcus | Morpethroad

 

Bill’s story is a study of a mind torn by unhappiness and loss. Very moving.

Cube

 

Bigalo—I feel as though I know him. Poor kid…I hope Phylor keeps him out of harm’s way in the next installment.

JD’s Microfiction #6: [Bigalo Sad] Child – Phylor’s Blog

 

Merril’s story is directly inspired by the life of the artist. So moving and delicately written.

Microfiction Challenge: Lonely Boy | Yesterday and today: Merril’s historical musings

 

Kerfe’s illustration seems to have provoked different reactions, just like the painting.

https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/2016/07/27/junk-mail-art-the-child-alone/

 

Sri’s story is the background to last week’s story. Another child learning to grow up very young.

https://srisudhak.wordpress.com/2016/07/27/lil-lucy/

 

Michael (Poetry Channel) A modern form of isolation. I’m hoping Michael will continue this story next week.

Latchkeyed- A Microfiction | The Poetry Channel

Thanks to all of you for such an interesting collection of stories. Watch out for the next prompt which might hit your inboxes in a few hours. Tomorrow is going to be hectic for me.

Microfiction: Books part IV

Photo ©Mehmet Pinarci

1024px-Sailor_1911_Standard_21K_Zoom_nib

“How can I read what’s not there?” she yelled at the empty room.

You have to write it first. The reply dropped into her head.

A string of obscenities formed a chaotic dance in counter-attack then faded into frustration. She picked up a pencil from the floor and opened the book. After writing something that resembled the graffiti you find in public toilets, she doodled a bad cartoon image of the bald-headed man. The pencil lead snapped and she tossed it back on the floor. A metallic glint caught her eye. By her feet lay a gold fountain pen.

Persian silk trees in the rain

Hunting_1

In the rain the silk trees drip
Soft and cool about the seated men
Murmuring oriental stories
They had not thought to hear again.
Rain falls to the cadence of their memories
On pale pink flowers, balls of bird-like plumes
That cluster glittering with their fragile hues
Persian paintings caught among their blooms
One man lifts his face to the lacy canopy
And catches raindrops in his outstretched hand
Reflecting hanging gardens of another time
And the long dusty road from Samarkand.

Writing

After the bitter disappointment of last week when the release of my first book was postponed yet again, I have had time to take stock. For a writer, the ultimate goal is understood to be publication, and the recognition even if only by a small number of readers, that the work that went into producing that book was worth it. But when there’s a glitch in the publication process, when something happens that pushes the finishing line further into the future, the question arises: is publication really what it’s all about?

I have one book that is caught up in the tangled web of editing to a publisher’s satisfaction. But I have others, other worlds, other stories that I have written and revised, more that are waiting to be set down and brought to light. I started a new story today and I realise that the satisfaction to be had from creating not the story, because there is nothing new under the sun, but the way of telling it is enough in itself. The satisfaction of writing that final line, when the words come just right, and the story is told, is not like the excitement of knowing that a story is available to be read by millions of people. It is a deeper, more personal contentment, and I am happy with that. Publishers publish. Writers write.