Go away … I’m busy writing …
Go away … I’m busy writing …
Wanted to mark the end of the weekend with you.. here, one mouthful for me and one for you; open wide!
Actually, I’ve got a headache, a full-on beastie migraine. So maybe we can recreate that scene from ‘9 1/2 Weeks’ another time (does this phone keyboard not have fractions?). I do suffer with migraines and I refer their severity in a range of 8/10 or higher being eyes covered in a dark quiet bedroom, unable to move, room spinning and nausea, down to zero whereupon everything is alright in the world again.
Insomnia last night won’t have helped will it. No alcohol has been consumed by me for days now – just in case any part of you wondered! I’ve taken three sets of these pretty nurofen pills across the day with absolutely no effect whatsoever 🙄. Two visits to a GP over the last few years always results in the same suggestion – reduce all the stress you can and take these beta-blockers every day until further notice. Thanks but no. Not yet. I know through exercise, food and SLEEP 😫I can go weeks without suffering (any tips from my regulars gratefully considered xx).
Anyway, back to the sex.
I truly think sex and food sells writing. Of the seventy posts I’ve written since October (really??) the one which has received over 50 likes and the most of all was sticky toffee pudding! I’ve purchased a black lace novel to see whether they have altered much since I last read one about fifteen years ago. Mind you, I ought to read a library full to gain a decent overall opinion – someone’s got to 😜.
I like reading a little naughty sometimes. I enjoy my thrillers as you know from my present read ‘The Gift’ as mentioned this morning. I also give time to a romance or a contemporary women’s comedy tale. I am, however, lacking in the classics I admit. I should read Little Women this year I think if no other.
Anyway, if you’re planning to recreate THAT scene by Kim Bassinger and Mickey Rourke (when he still looked human) don’t let me stop you, but can I suggest you add some blueberries my darlings… I hear their properties are extremely good for headaches.
Hope we all sleep well 🍓
Birdsong twinkled it’s way in, alongside dappled light through jiggling leaves and the smell of fresh coffee all contributed to those first seconds of the day.
Riya stretched and her toes peeked out from under the white cotton sheet. John had promised she would love England and he had not been wrong. She blinked and the view beyond the window dazzled her senses. The blue sky was dotted with distant whisps of cloud and as Riya sat up and pulled the sheet around her, a small blue and yellow songbird fluttered onto the windowsill. She watched as it cocked its head from side to side, jerky little movements and a simple hop to face back out to the garden.
“Good morning you.” John was entering the room with a small tray on which mugs of tea steamed. He placed the tray on a large wooden box at the end of the bed.
A ripple of wingbeats and the bird was gone, “oh no, you scared it!” Riya swished to the window and leaned out a little way to breath in the fragrance of roses climbing the stone wall outside. “It’s truly beautiful here John. So … green!”
“You’re beautiful.” His hands found her waist and the sheet teased his palms as he felt the warmth of her skin through it. She twisted round on the spot and the material gathered itself at her waist. “I think I need you again.” He took her face carefully in his hands and kissed the tip of her nose, then her left cheek then her right.
Her breath escaped against his stubble and as he placed his lips on her neck, she put her arms around his and the sheet slithered to the floor…..
(I was missing John and Riya, weren’t you? ☺️)
Two magazines arrived in the post this morning…. and as my awake hours are a permanent juggle of how to allocate my time, tasks and thought processes constructively, which one do I open, because I know I haven’t got time for both. I want to write my novel, but I want to be a fitter version of my present self also!
My average day’s brainpower is split as follows;
Horse-rug work repairs (50%), housework (1% must try harder), being good moral support to farming husband (100% because I can multi-task), cooking (3% keep forgetting to buy ingredients), mindfulness (80% I like this one), learning the art of creative writing (60% and want more more more), reading (25% have a list of TBR novels which evidently means I cannot in fact multi-task).
Oh … and now blogging 💃🏼. Nobody mentioned it was really good fun around here. I’d only heard it was THE place to come to check out some amazing unpublished writers doing amazing things with words and photos, so I stopped by a few weeks ago to read and decided to add my ramblings to the pile.
I have just cleared a handbag out of old receipts and found my long-lost perfume, all between paragraphs two and three, so may the multi-tasking thing is doable after all. AND (never start a sentence with ‘and’) did you notice my watermark on this photo? Why anyone would care to steal and use daft photos from moi I’ve no idea, but apparently its all the rage these days, so I downloaded an app to add one – iWatermark.
Back to my choice….
I adore that feeling when you’ve done a run – I managed oooh, let me think, at least three romps around the village last year – or 25 squats in front of the telly, borrowing your son’s free weights, before realising your father in law is stood in the doorway as he came to borrow some eggs (they live 200 yards down the lane).
(If you show these ones, they’ll think you can lift 7.5kgs; where are the 3s? God knows but if we keep quiet, they’ll never know. Artistic licence we’ll call it) But try as I might, I never quite achieve the abs of the girls on the front covers. I can do sixty crunch twists lying on the carpet watching the 118th re-run of Skyfall no problem, but all I achieve is bruised sides (that’s a good thing!). While Barb may not turn the same heads with her cover photo as the anonymous girl on the fitness magazine, and I hate to admit here to you all that I have never (what, NEVER?? 🙊) read one of her books, it doesn’t take a genius to know that she is a household name. Did you know she was born and raised in Yorkshire although now splits her time between the UK and America, where she lives in Manhattan with her husband of 55 years. Her first, and probably most famous title, A Woman of Substance has sold over 30m copies! Hang on, I’ll just sit down and say that again. Thirty million copies 😱 which places it nicely in the top ten bestselling novels of all-time. Respect. That, to me, is sexy right there.
Now whether we like her genre, or writing style, is almost irrelevant. She must have a certain something (*makes mental note to buy copy from Amazon*) you have to agree. I’m eager to hear her tips, her advice. Maybe I can learn a thing or two about time management!
Brilliant – I’ve made a decision! The body blitz can wait …..
What have I done?!
I became a member – of the Romantic Novelists Association💕
Am I ready for this?
Are they ready for me 😬
Joking aside, I left 2017 focused on doing this writing thing. I’ve thought about it on and off for most of my adult life, but allowed work and children and hobbies and husband and other people’s expectations to be used as an excuse for never giving it a serious ‘go’.
It’s 2018 and I am setting goals left, right and all over the place. I wish to learn this trade. Ok, I have a basic grasp of the English language – you may disagree – but I wish to soak up (like a sponge) all and every opportunity coming my way to improve and refine.
If I don’t throw myself off the top, I’ll never know if I can fly will I?!
I need a manuscript, full manuscript, by August to send off to a panel of authors and editors – eeeek 🙊
Can I do that? Is John a contender? No, he is a short story, almost half way done. Instead I shall edit my WIP from NaNo last November; 22,000 words already exist 🥂 (after editing, let’s narrow that down to about 18,000 because I always say too much!).
I fear I shall have to lighten up the dark parts or the Barbara Taylor-Bradford stalwarts will faint in their chairs by chapter 3. (Why did I even say that; I’ve never read a BTB. Maybe they are full of sordid details? Anyone?).
This is one of their claims… so, my lovely male fellow bloggers – is it true?
Come with me on this petrifying journey. Please? Help me, share with me your tips along the way…. if nothing comes of it and in September I receive the email “Thank you but deary me, no thank you.” at least I shalt have learnt a thing or two along the way, and had some tea and cakes at their regular meet-ups.
London. Feb 10th. First meeting and a chance to listen to a romantic novelist winner from last year 😱. Wow. I hope I don’t bow in awe when she walks in.
Shall I book you a ticket?
For months now he had wanted to hold her, bury his nose in her silky hair, whisper nothings to her delicate neck, but not like this. John’s fingers moved dust-covered hair from her face, her eyelashes meeting over closed eyes, her body limp in his arms. The rumbling of the aftershocks evident every few minutes as the ground shook beneath them. He had moved her to the road, away from the wooden office structure perched on the top of the dam.
Ramesh was running, talking frantically into a walkie talkie which John noticed an hour before, attached to a utility belt, as they had together investigated the turbine room. No sign of Aditya who had moved the car at the first warning, away from the crest. John watched the ground, as shingle and small stones jumped and bobbed around him, shimmying along in the same direction for three or four seconds before resting. Riya was breathing but unconscious, drying blood glued itself to her temple.
“Ramesh! Get a fucking move on with that kit!”
“It’s here!” the engineer appeared again sprinting the few yards from the office, box in hand, the walkie talkie babbling all the time. He dropped the box and a litre bottle of water on the ground, touched John’s shoulder and spoke back,
“Adi, the ambulance is on its way for Riya; John’s with her. Where the hell are you?”
“Gimme your jacket, quick!” ordered John, not taking his eyes from her face, but holding his right arm up to leave Ramesh in no doubt as to what was expected of him.
Manoeuvring Riya’s head from the crook of his left elbow, John carefully arranged the makeshift pillow with his right hand, before opening the first aid box. He used wipes to gently assess her temple wound, pouring fresh water from the bottle to clean further down her cheeks. He found saline, fresh cotton wool and was relieved the wound was small which he covered with a basic dressing. He took a swig from the bottle as the next rumble began; he watched the water level shudder, circles attempting to escape but finding instead the circumference and bouncing back.
Ramesh’s voice travelled up from somewhere near but out of sight. “John! Adi is also hurt – come!”
He was torn. How could he leave Riya exposed to falling rocks from the hillside? He searched the immediate landscape for somewhere more safe to lie her but just as he lifted her off the ground, he caught sight of Aditya, his arm around Ramesh’ shoulders and bearing weight on only one leg. “Come to this piece of flat land!” John called back over his shoulder as he walked his previous cargo and the others followed. Around a slight bend in the road the hill flattened out and there was less risk from falling debris. In the distance a siren offered an increasing hope of medical attention and John paused, exhausted not with the weight of the beautiful girl in his arms, but with the anguish that she may be more hurt inside than could be seen. He wanted to make her better, he wanted to look into her eyes, wanted to see her smile.
As the ambulance drew closer and the lights flashed their arrival, the ground vibrated more than before, making them all fall to their hands and knees. Covering Riya’s face with his body, John prayed for it to stop. It did giving them long enough to receive immediate roadside attention before being placed inside the vehicle for the return journey to the nearest hospital. As they sat in silence, all moving in unison with the vehicle’s twists and turns along the road, they each stared at their sister, PA, friend; the men each engrossed in their thoughts. The paramedic attached various patches and lines to monitors and Riya’s body became the charge of the professionals.
John rested his elbows on his knees and allowed his head to drop so no-one could see his face. He fought the sting of tears threatening their appearance behind his eyelids and swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes more tightly shut while the motion of the ambulance and the anguished squeal of the siren dulled as he visualised Riya’s voice speaking to him in her velvet tones only an hour before when they had made their way down the steps inside the dam’s inner structure.
It was no good, he couldn’t stop them. He cursed himself as they forced their way out, much like the water through the dam’s seep holes. His silent tears collected this time on his lips, then fell to the floor, just as he felt his hand being touched. He moved his head a little and his intake of breath was audible as he saw Riya’s fingers reach for his own. He looked at her face, covered in dust, blood and now tears were creating clean channels through the dust on her perfect skin. Finally, she had opened those beautiful eyes and chosen him to be their first picture. She smiled at John and his tears continued through relief. This girl was something and John knew instantly what he had to do.
(Image – google images)
TO READ PART 1 – PRESS HERE
TO READ PART 5 – PRESS HERE
A wall of hot air waited stealthily on the other side of the sliding doors. John knew the arrivals hall at Chhatrapati Shivaji was the last air conditioning he would enjoy until he reached his hotel, where cool air was not guaranteed in any event. Generators were temperamental in Kankavli. He stood, allowing the cool to seep around his neck one more time before grasping the case handle and braving the oven.
The cab driver was preoccupied – he drove erratically and spoke into his phone speaker quickly, his voice full of anxiety and irritation. The previous week’s earthquake had brought devastation to the area fifty miles south of the airport. John slid sideways across the back seat as the padmini criss-crossed the unmade roads, avoiding oncoming traffic but not potholes.
Usual hotel, usual room. A smile from the usual receptionist as she handed John his key. Four hours later he would attend his first meeting with Aditya, the CEO of a newly formed water company and John was prepared for resistance. His predecessor had warned him of the proclivity which had been shown at the suggestion of a new route for the existing pipework.
Mumbai was slowly improving their water systems but John was here to implement changes which would benefit huge parts of the city, and following Mother Nature’s recent reminder, he knew the work was needed. This was his fourth visit in as many months and this time he had a plan ….
(Daily word prompt flash fiction piece … today’s word Proclivity)
TO READ PART 2 of this story, click here