Expect a lot of books

One of the first things people say when they come into my house is always;

-You have a lot of books!
-I do.
(Silence usually falls at this point, but only for a moment because its biding it's time, it know that it can rear its ugly head again later.)
-Have you read them all?
-Most of them. I can count on one hand the ones that I haven't though...
(Then my guest will wander towards one of the many bookcases/baskets in my house and run their finger along the spines of the books; hopefully noticing the lack of dust that all too often lingers on heavily burdoned bookshelves.)
-I used to love this series! I see you like your fantasy?
(It's always fantasy. No one ever says "I see you like your thriller, short stories or anglo welsh writers!")
-Yes. I do like a bit of Pratchett. The Discworld is...
-I used to read the Terry Goodkind books too.
-Their actually my partners...
(Ignoring me they quickly scan the rest of the bookshelves in my living room before saying)
-Don't you have the first one?
-'Wizards First Rule?'
-Yes?
-It's in the spare room. He owns a big copy of it, won't fit on these shelves.

Mrs Yettman sits in her chair and sniggers. She's seen it countless times, I should expect it now too, but somehow I am constantly suprised at how people chose to reference their knowledge of literature. For example, on clear display in my living room are the complete brightly decorated childrens versions of the Harry Potter books. They are almost without a doubt the most obvious and well known books on that particular shelf, (with the possible exception of the 'Complete Works of Shakespeare'...) However no one uses these books as a starting point for this conversation. I think perhaps it has something to do with them being primarily childrens books. Mrs Yettman is laughing now. She has been circling me for a few weeks now, preparing to pounce. I can hear her whisper write, write, write... She calls. I want to, I actually want nothing more, but unfortunatley real life breaks my heart and forces me to have time only to write in countless forms. Pink ones, yellow ones and white... they don't whisper. Their voices SHOUT!

Truthfully, I am tired. I have found a moment, one moment to write to you. I have no time to proof read, to check, or even to think. But this moment will silence Mrs Yettman for now. Slowly she is shrinking in size on my sofa, curling up into a tabby ball of fur. I watch her, she has become young and lively again. Craving my attention, my time. I pick her up, gently stroking her contented face, twisting her tail around my fingers. She rests contented in my arms as I make my way down the stairs, I put her outside next to the potted tree in my front garden and close the door and clip the latch on the cat flap. I come back upstairs. For a moment nothing happens. One beautiful moment of nothing, I begin to rest. I breath.

She has started to scratch at my door... it's only quiet, but I know it will soon become unbareable and I will have to let her in. Give her my time. My love.

New Look and the Cows

As of today my blog has a new look, a new feel and a very definate more regular input!

Recently the novel has been playing on my mind, and Mrs Yettman is using that to her advantage. She is pushing me into entering a few writing competitions and I'm not sure that my work is good enough as yet. As flippant as it sounds, it just doesn't feel ready! So I am attempting to soldier on with my novel. It is coming along quite nicely now that I know the cows are the key. Yes. You read correctly. The cows are the main focal point of my novel! It came as a suprise to me too, especially seeing as I had been busy writing about estranged fathers and abortions. Anyway, I think that the cows are working to bring the whole thing together.


This brings me on to my next topic of conversation - theory! I have studied in fair depth the relativley new ecocriticism theory that is causing debate in the literary world, and I have found that without really being aware of it myself, that reading my novel is like waving a massive green flag for ecocriticism from the top of Big Ben! Since realising this, I have been able to to do two things.

One - allow this overwhelming urge to indulge in ecocriticism to continue as it has been, as well as helping it to grow and show itself in even clearer terms. Perhaps I could even let it change the climax of my novel so that it represents a theoretical response as appose to just a good story! I could follow in the footsteps of great ecocritical writers and force the theory upon not only myself but my readers too! (If I am ever lucky enough to have any!)

OR

Two - I could ignore it and carry on as I am.

Not being able to fully decide, or even strike an immediate balance between the two I have found myself writing two versions of everything in the vain hope that I will be able to marry them together later on in the process... foolish? Probably.

Oh well. I hope you enjoy my new look blog, and I am sure that the cows will be back to see you all soon...

Death of the Author

Sylvia Plath commited suicide, Agatha Christie once dissapeared for a week and no one is really sure what happened to Edgar Allan Poe.

I am sitting in a coffee shop drinking my third cup of tea when I overhear a snippet of conversation which intruiges me. A balding man carrying a red clipboard which clashes with the colour of his tie announces:

"BRITISH AUTHOR DIES IN CRASH!"

Suprisingly this is met by a roar of laughter by the other three people who are happily sharing his wine. "Probably the best thing a writer can do for his publisher" Says the man who is lucky enough to have hair, even if it is receeding. "Sometimes I think I should write all the poems that God has given me, leave them on my publishers desk and then go and drive a car into a lampost!" Again more laughter follows, and I am now listening much more intently than your avarege evesdroper. I find myself sidling along my seat so that I can be closer to the group.


"So. You're poems Sam? Is there a collection yet?"


"I'd say so."


"And are they ready?"


"Are they ever?" More laughter. I want to talk to them, show them some of my own poetry even though I know it has it's limitations. Maybe I should ask them if they are looking to publish any short fiction. Unknown by anyone else in the room, Mrs Yettman sits down next to me. She feels very strongly about what I should ask the group. She assures me that talking to this random group of people may indeed jeopordise my integrity as a writer, because all I am going to do is throw myself at them, in much the same way that a married middle aged woman might throw herself at an also married, but nonetheless slightly happier Garry Barlow in fresh veg aisle in Morrisons.



I know from her constant badgering that she wants these stories to be a success more than anyone. They are, after all, her road to the acknowledgement which she so desperatley wants. her presence only causes me momentary distraction and pretty soon I am already deep in thought, wondering if perhaps if it might benefit my bank balance (in which I am knee deep in overdraft) if I was to die?

"AUTHOR KILLED BY WEAK BOOK SHELF!"

"AUTHOR FOUND DEAD SURROUNDED BY MANUSCRIPT"

"AUTHOR SUFFERS SAME FATE AS NOW INFAMOUS CHARACTER!"

No. Somehow none of these seem quite right. Mrs Yettman nods in agreement. I should probably keep on living at least as long as it takes to finish the collection.

Mrs Yettman

Mrs Yettman is around fiffty years old, but it is difficult to be precise because like many old ladies she is reluctant to share her age. She has grey hair that is just too short to wear up like she'd like. Her eyes are a dark shade of tired brown, but recently she has started to wear contacts which add a certain sparkle to them, especially at night.

She is American. To be precise she is from Ohio, which is a place that I know nothing about. Mrs Yettman's christian name is Kathleen, although she was never christened. Christopher, who for thirty years has been Mr Yettman, dotes over her even more now than when they met. Sometimes however she feels that perhaps he has begun to feel that marraige is just a chore that he has to complete each day.

Her brother, Dafydd, emigrated to Wales a long time ago and she has never really recovered. He chose Wales because after following his family history he found that his great great grandmother was infact Welsh. Neither Dafydd or Mrs Yettman knew her, but still he felt the need to go and explore his heritage, which Mrs Yettman convinced herself she understood.

Now she is in Wales delivering news of a death in the family to her brother. However she is about to die in a terrible accident which will keep the local gossip mongourers for weeks to come. The only problem is that I can't quite bring myself to let go of Mrs Yettman...

For the past year Mrs Yettman has been a huge part of my life. She has sat next to me on the bus, drank white wine with me in my garden, watched Neighbours with me in my living room, cuddled up with me in my bed and even turned away as I used the bathroom. Her presence is constant.

I am a writer and Mrs Yettman is one of my characters. I have just finished a degree in creative writing, in which I decided to write a collection of short stories for my final year project. Mrs Yettman is the central character in one of those stories. Although I have handed this small collection in for marking, and have actually received my mark back (I congratualte myself on a First...) I still feel that these pieces are not yet finished. I have decided to put together a full collection of short stories, focusing around similar and related themes and ideas, and then, once I have a completed collection, I am going to try and have them published. My copy of the Writers' & Artists' Yearbook 2009 is already close at hand. I am going to use this blog, with the help of my now good friend Mrs Yettman, to help me acheive this goal. I hope that it will not only help me get my thoughts in order, thus allowing me to go to the bathroom alone, but also that I will be able to conect with other like minded bloggers /writers who may or may not have anything to say. Anyway, I hope that this blog/journal is of interest to some of you, but right now the Eastenders Omnibus has just started and I promised to make Mrs Yettman a cup of coffee to enjoy while it is on. She likes it white without sugar.