In November I have mostly been writing. Writing, and not reading it back or editing or even correcting simple typos and words underlined automatically by Microsoft Word in red or green. No time. NO TIME! I shout to myself. I’m doing the NanoWrimo Novel-Writing Challenge.

Words are my friends, they are my enemy. I need to write more, more, more and the backspace button is not my friend. Pruning is not allowed. Quantity over quality is my aim. I think.

It’s not that I want to write crap and congratulate myself at the end when I (hopefully) have 50,000 words in a document, sitting smugly and boasting about my achievements. The idea is to break down the barriers to writing, to get SOMETHING down on the page, which can then be edited and re-drafted at a later date.

Analysis is the enemy of the novelist; too much agonising over choosing the correct word, crafting the most perfect sentence, or browsing the net in the name of crucial research. These things can be ironed out later. BASH IT OUT NOW and then you have a framework to play with.

I’ve heard some talk of a mass re-draft session kicking off in March each year, post Nano, post Christmas, post the depressions of January and the skurge of sales and diets and misery frozen in window panes nationwide. The re-draft is a challenge for the future.

For now, two weeks in, here are the 10 things Nano has taught me about myself as a writer:

1. I’m not a planner
2. I didn’t need to give up my job to write a novel
3. In fact I NEED TO HAVE A JOB to write a novel
4. I can squeeze writing into small blocks of time, like 500 words between Paisley Gilmour Street and Glasgow Central
5. I don’t need silence; in fact I thrive on background noise. It could be some classical tunes serenading me in the background (thanks Cara!), or my Mother chattering to my Auntie on the phone…
6. I am totally comfortable leaving the research until later (preferably to someone else)
7. I feel like writing is my life and my perfect career…BUT I’m glad I have come back to it at this juncture in my life
8. A novel is like an exam question – your mind is working out the answers while you are doing something else entirely
9. If I sit down to write, ideas channel through my finger-tips: I am a vessel for communication.
10. I have punctuation hang-ups since High School English, when I was accused of being a ‘comma splicer’. These are in the main, unfounded and should be wiped from memory.

Onwards with the journey.

18,000 words is not good enough for day 13….

1 Comment | In: Rebecca, Writing | tags: 000 words, 50, nano, nanowrimo, national novel writing month, novel writing challenge, writing. | #

Sometimes pictures are better than words. That’s how I feel about the streets of Havana anyway – mainly Havana Vieja (Old Havana) - in all their gory richness; the dichotomy of grand, colourful buildings basking in a halo of sunlight, replaced by shadowy vestibules of crumbling brick, exposed wiring and rotting trash round the next corner.

When I think about the explosive, corrosive, all-encompassing bath of heat in Cuba now, it feels like I over-exaggerated it even to myself. I guess it’s hard to put myself back there while wrapped up for winter wearing furry slippers with the heating at full blast. Maybe.

Comments Off | In: Lifestyle, Photography, Travel | tags: buildings, cuba, cuban architecture, havana, havana city, havana in pictures, havana vieja, holiday, hot, streets. | #

This is a short piece I did in response to my new writing class – Inspiration & Realism for Writers - focusing on using the senses to convey story. We were played a beautiful, symphonic melody with hints of dolphins conversing. At least that’s what I made of it. The emphasis was on the sense of ’sound’.

It was a tranquil moment amidst a busy day, and a chance to let the imagination take over.

At first it made me think of a ballet dancer intent on her poses; perhaps like Natalie Portman in Black Swan. Then came the aquatic overlays which led me to the strict regimen of a synchronised swimmer – acting alone yet part of something bigger.

Floating.

The first notes amplified  in the still water. Water slippery around her face, her skin wet then veiled with fine droplets like lace clinging to her pores, clinging to the tiny hair follicles.

Symbols clashed their signal and the group moved in unison. Limbs pointing straight out, toes primed like a ballerina mid-plié.

Then up, out of the water, the air clasping smooth skin in its embrace. Plunging back down, fanning out, coiling in. Hands together, holding, synchronised. Face submerged. Notes subside.

The water is still again.

I wonder what this week’s class will inspire?

No Comments | In: Writing | tags: inspiration and realism for writers, music, personal writing practice, sound, synchronised swimmer, university of strathclyde centre for lifelong learning, writing practice. | #

How difficult is it to have a conversation? Not difficult at all you might say. Only I’ve noticed recently that it can be fraught with interruptions and that each train of thought is derailed so many times the point being made is infinitely diluted to the merest nothing; a cosmic vapour; sound bombs lost in a chilly October wind.

Example 1

The Scene: City Centre Car Park with Husband

The Scenario: Constant noise/situation pollution stamps out all attempt at sustained conversation

Upon exiting the car, I being a conversation (can’t remember what about now…) Having parked on the roof of said carpart, we have to walk downstairs, passing through a stairwell that stinks of piss. I hold my breath. Doors are opened and held and closed. I carry on my thread of conversation. We have to show our car park token to an attendant and wander along the busy platform of the train station. Falling back into step, I continue, only to be interrupted by a tannoy announcement about a delayed train. OK – carry on. The tannoy announcement is repeated. Start again. Refuse free newspapers/magazines, and wander along the street. Building work, pneumatic drills, noise pollution so loud we can’t carry on a conversation. Walking uphill, people in front smoking so I get a lungful of second-hand smoke. Thanks. I forget what I was saying and give up.

Example 2

The Scene: Shopping with the Mothership

The Scenario: Visual disruptions make conversation futile

Me (with burning desire to off-load facts): “So, you know how I told you about [key topic at forefront of mind]…”

Mothership: “Erm, remind me again. Ooh, look. Aren’t they lovely. Shall we go in [passing a shop window]?”

Me: “OK. Yeah so remember…”

Mothership: “Oh before I forget did I tell you I won £5 on the Thunderball again? I meant to say on the phone. It really is better than the normal lottery. Anyway, go on.”

Me: “Right, well the thing is…”

Mothership: “Is that [random person] over there?”

Me: “No.”

Mothership: “Sorry. You were saying…I must just nip in here to get those special porridge oats actually. Hang on a minute.”

Me: “Shall we go for a coffee so we can sit down properly?”

Mothership: “Good idea. I’ll just nip to the loo.”

Me (internally): Why do I bother?

 And it’s not just these scenarios that leave me irritated by interruptions and unable to converse. Restaurants are places where many crimes against conversation are committed.

Picture the scene – you meet up after work for a mid-week meal out OR set out on ‘date night’ for a romantic evening. Shown to your table, you order drinks, bit of chit chat, peruse the menu, then the evening can begin. Soaking up the atmosphere, recounting anecdotes from the day, catching up on conversation…until they bring out the bread rolls and butter, swap some cutlery about and perhaps uncork a bottle of wine at the table. Then the candle – if not already – has to be lit/swapped/snuffed. All of these interruptions take place at non-consecutive times, giving you just enough time inbetween to start out on a protracted thread of convo, but stare awkwardly at each other for the duration of the interruption, de-railed and confused.

“Are you ok for drinks?”

“Bloody fine – we’re having a convo, yeah?”

Then the meal arrives. Great stuff. Starving. Start eating, then just as you have a mouthful of food, they come over and ask if everything is OK.

“Mmmph. Thanhgihgks.”

When you finish eating, you just want the plates cleared and they are NO-WHERE TO BE SEEN, OR, you’re so thirsty and need another drink and can’t do anything to grab someone’s attention.

Dessert. Maybe. You’ve got a few questions perhaps about what each one includes/entails/is made of. Your heart is set on the mouth-watering-brilliant-super-seductive-whatever-with-ten-cherries-on-top. Oh but they don’t have that. Didn’t they say when they gave you the menu? Ooops.

Right, just the bill then. But everyone is gone; in hiding. It’s like a ghost-town and no-one wants to rattle your chains. You’re so full, you’re glad they didn’t have that sumptuous-sounding dessert. But now you just want to get home/get to the pub/lie down and die in super-soft pyjamas.

Not for nothing will they notice you now. You’re over as far as they’re concerned. If you aren’t ordering anything more and they’ve pumped you for all the coffee you can drink, what’s the point in wasting their energies on you? Until you start getting your scarf, hat, gloves and coat on. That does it. The conversation though? What conversation.

So it’s just the interminable wait for the card machine to crunch through your plastic; everyone staring at it, willing it to work, to spit out the thin papery trail of your romantic evening as you suck on a mint. Unless you want to add some gratuity?

No, I WANT TO BE LEFT IN PEACE TO HAVE A PRIVATE CONVERSATION!!!!!!!!!!!!

1 Comment | In: Lifestyle, Wannabe Journalist | tags: carpark, city centre, conversations, interrupted, interruptions, noise pollution, restaurant, Shopping. | #

It’s a month now since we woke up to this amazing sunrise squeezing up between the buildings of Parque Central, Havana.

Full of verve for the day ahead we were greeted with the Cuban version of Bucks Fizz as we entered the breakfast room. An omelette chef was on-hand, as all around tables bulged with fruits, pastries, cereals, cakes, cheese, cold meats and the usual cooked fayre. What was all that about a shortage of food?

Suitably fuelled, we ventured from the luxuriant cool of the hotel – for the first time since arriving – quickly accosted on all sides by men asking if we wanted to take a ride in their rickshaw or yellow Cuba Taxi; women asking us to buy dinner for them and their many children… It was akin to visiting the pyramids at Giza when we were pestered by hordes of locals to buy bags and ornaments, or just hold them – for a fee - and couldn’t properly enjoy the experience.

Tempted to bolt back into the hotel and up to the rooftop pool, we persevered, eventually stumbling into La Habana Vieja – Old Havana – rather than be tricked into Havana City with the lure of a non-existent Salsa Festival. It’s not that Cuban’s want to harm or murder us you understand, we were later told. It’s just that they want our money. The idea would be to lead us into the dodgiest part of town, the parts where tourists are told to avoid, and then rob us blind. Oh I see, OK, well armed with that knowledge we feel MUCH better about the whole thing. Which way is it then, this festival?

Clearly, wandering the narrow, often dirty streets of Havana is no time for relaxing thoughts. With names like Cuba and O’Reilly, they had open bins, rusting cars and kittens strolling around huge puddles from the previous days’ thunder storm. The heat mutated into an almost visible evil genie, slapping us in the face at each corner; spitting at our clothes, stealing the oxygen from the air.

We stood out as obvious tourists; our large-brimmed sun hats, pale skin and confused facial expressions. Toothless indistinct persons shouted out to us; ‘Kissy Kissy’ girls grabbed our arms, encouraging us to take photos of them dressed in Cuban lace and finery, then pay for the privilege. Others followed, asking where we wanted to go and had we heard there was a Salsa Festival just round the corner?

Within minutes we were hot, sticky, lost, confused, heat-debilitated and thirsty. Passing a collection of open doorways where vendors arranged their wares for the day – leather and crochet handbags, shell jewellery, canvas paintings, fridge magnets and trinkets – we took refuge in a leaf-canopied cafe/bar where I ordered a reviving Pina Colada.

It was 10am and I felt rather decadent. Then little bits of blossom and bark trickled down from the canopy above into the creamy froth while sweat ran down my face.

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Travel | tags: breakfast, cuba, cuba taxi, fake salsa festival, havana, havana city, humidity, Kissy Kissy girls; Kissers, La Habana Vieja, o'reilly, Old Havana, parque central, rickshaw, sunrise. | #

Preparing to land at Varadero Airport, Cuba after circa 10 hours, I started to get impatient as the little TV map showed us hovering over the Bahamas, teasingly, agonisingly, making what seemed like little progress despite a gradual descent.

Then, as the landscape revealed itself, flanked by dreamy topaz seas, I was surprised to see lush fields and hedgerows knitted together; a mesmerising geometry of green, tan and brown akin to all we had left behind flying out of Manchester, and even more so, back home in Scotland. Some patches of green boasted etchings of rooftops and of industry, others were zigzags of grey with Afros on matchsticks – the Royal Palm an official symbol of Cuba as its national tree.

The heat of mid-afternoon burst into every pore within seconds of disembarking; our walk to the airport a concoction of excitement and of exhaustion.

Security was quite intimidating as we took it in turns to stand in front of the passport control officials, staring into a tiny camera hanging down from the booth. Despite forty weeks of Spanish lessons I managed to mumble ‘hello’ rather than ‘hola’ or ‘buenos tardes’, and struggled to understand when I was asked, in English, how long my stay was for. I blame travel-weary ears. A buzzer indicated admittance to the country as the door was unlocked. 

Dragged from my giddy anticipation by the strict formality of the situation, there was another security check for hand luggage through an x-ray conveyor, before we could reclaim our suitcases.

Sniffer dogs were paraded around, monitored closely for signs of excitement or agitation - do they just bark? – as the same few bags looped round and round and round and round. We started to worry that ours were not going to appear, but it seemed like nobody else could see their bags either and eventually they appeared. All the while security guards watched us intently, and I felt sure I was guilty of something and would be hauled away to some Cuban pension for torture and interrogation. It’s OK – I wasn’t.

There was a scramble to the exit en masse; a jumble of suitcase wheels colliding, tripping, cutting each other up, and out into the sun again. It was all very efficient getting to the right bus, with gloriously aggressive air con. We waited in line to change some English notes into convertible pesos (CUC’s), and then it was off to Havana.

Our tour guide was way too chirpy for a bus full of British people after a 10 hour flight. He cracked jokes and asked about sport and football teams and how William and Kate were getting on. No-one responded. We hurtled along winding roads and through a small town. The sky darkened and I wondered if it was going to rain. 

It was two hours to Havana, and we all just wanted to get there and get unpacked and freshened up. Instead the tour guide decided it would be fun to stop off at a roadside bar for Pina Colada’s, and get into the Cuban way of life. This is what we soon came to know as ‘Cuba Time’ (as in, no point in rushing because everyone is working on Cuba Time where there is all the time in the world…)

Thirsty, about to pass out with weariness, I decided I wouldn’t be having a Pina Colada, but as we pulled in they were all laid out on the bar and just as he’d planned, I couldn’t resist. Bingo – so that’s why he urged us all to change money at the airport! We paid CUC 2.50 each for our drinks (less than £2), and they just pass you the bottle of rum and the cinnamon so you can ‘rum to taste’. I couldn’t imagine that ever happening in Glasgow, but was glad I decided to give it a whirl, and started to relax into it.

Until the wind whipped up and the thunder snapped and the rain hammered down around us, protected as we were by only a small makeshift shack with a palm/banana leaf roof. Brilliant. Everyone was huddling together, bear arms and flip-flopped feet unprepared for the onslaught of rain. We waited a few minutes, by this point soaked to the skin, watching the water flood into huge puddles half burying the wheels of the bus. Eventually we had to make a run for it, wading through inches of fresh rain water, which ten minutes before had been tucked up high in the clouds. Bedraggled, wet and freezing was not how I had envisioned arriving at our 5* hotel in Havana.

More jokes, (my favourite being “How to speak Japanese on the beach” – “Y u so tan?” hahahaha. Ha.), some hairy bends on slippery, rain-soaked roads, speeding along, and then we were there.

The Parque Central Hotel was a paradise, a haven in Havana of bronze statues, marble, discreet smoke-holes, quiet, cool, calm. Waiting for us in our room was a complimentary bottle of Havana Club Rum - 7 year old – and a chocolate cake.

The first thing I did was have a hot bath – I know – a hot bath! But I was so cold from the rain and the tiredness made me shiver if the heavily air conditioned room. Then, with hindsight, I made the most fatal error of the holiday and cleaned my teeth with the tap water, despite many warnings not to.

“It’ll be OK” I trilled, “I’ve got my travellers probiotics.”

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Travel | tags: cuba, cuba time, havana, havana club rum, holiday, parque central, pina colada, rum, varadero. | #

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Travel | tags: cuba, holiday, varadero. | #

I just downloaded some pictures from my phone and rediscovered these beautiful flowers that compelled me to capture them in a little frame of time. They can be found in the Kibble Palace within the Botanic Gardens, which I visited recently with my friend Rachel. I hadn’t visited for years, which is usually the way when you live close to something. Tragic.

There is a whole amazon-jungle section complete with the dense canopy of exotic leaves and palms you would expect in tropical climes. An unmistakable musk of undergrowth; sweet and laden with promise permeates the air, the occasional droplet of condensation smacking onto the flora below. 

On the day we visited, there was a section cordoned off with the kind of plastic tape the police use to protect a crime scene. I wondered if someone was going to jump out in front of us and shout: “There’s been a murder!” in full Glaswegian patois, shooing us away with a gruff eyebrow and a bark worse than death. No one did. But it definitely got me to thinking that the Kibble would be quite a good place to commit a murder:

• Relatively quiet
• Lots of cover from plant life
• Soil to bury the evidence
• Hosepipes lying around to wash away footprints/blood

I’m not even into CSI but I do have an over-active imagination… Luckily on this occasion we got in and out safely, suitably inspired by the plants and flowers on display.

I particularly loved these specimens as they look so perfectly formed, so intricate; almost as if they have been carved from wax with a precision tool. A waxwork museum dedicated to flowers. That would be well worth a visit!

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Photography, Wannabe Journalist | | #

It’s there. In the garden. All bright and exciting and new and smelling of delicate cedars and pine and cherry like the inside of a sauna. I keep peeping out of the window to check it is still there. It is.

‘Operation Shed’ has been some time in the planning. From the realisation that the old shed – huge and spacious with all the little nails and hooks you could ask for – had two major flaws:

• It was built right next to the hedge, allowing dampness to conduct from the hedge to the shed every time it rained. Which was a lot.
• The roof was a ‘pent’ roof and had not been assembled correctly so was not at the optimal slant for drainage. Oh dear.

It all added up to a damp, slightly mouldy shed, threatening the sensitive equilibrium of the few things we kept in there…like the mower and the toolbox. It had to go.

Malleted down with force by husband (with help from my Dad), by some miracle our adjoining neighbour wanted to take it off our hands. Result! It was duly hauled over the hedge by the heft and flurry of his five brothers, leaving us with a nice square patch for the new arrival. Except underneath wasn’t a level base so we then had to buy, transport and shovel over half a tonne of builders gravel. We won’t mention that here…

The morning of ‘Shed Day’, I was ready with my paintbrush to get going straight away. Choosing the colour scheme had been such a difficult decision, but after debating between ‘Jack’s Potting Shed’, ‘Mary’s Watering Can’ and ‘Thomas’ Beehive’, we finally agreed on ‘Sea Holly’ from a totally different range of paint. Sorry Jack et al. Perhaps in another life?

It was only after I had done the first coat that I realised Sea Holly was pretty much identical to the colour of the feature wall in the bathroom. I really love deep, mystical turquoise – what can I say?

The inside was to be Thomas’ Beehive, a frothy primrose yellow (following a suggestion by my good friend Cara to up the ante on the interior shed decor), but when I looked at the smooth lines of the wood inside, the delicate finish, breathed in the delicious and somewhat intoxicating scent of new wood, I couldn’t do it. So the natural look prevails.

I laboured over two coats of Sea Holly, leaving the trim around the top and the window to be picked out in a contrast colour. Husband and I both decided a vibrant red would be the way to go, only to find that red isn’t an option for outdoor wood. It’s all about blending in with nature and muted garden tones. Right then. So a deep autumnal ‘Berry’ it was. And I am delighted with the result:)

There are no shelves up or anything yet, and the tools need to be hung nicely from well-positioned nails, but I thought that would be a nice job to embark upon with my Dad. Right Dad? You’re coming up for a visit soon aren’t you? Dad…

NB. For anyone wondering why on earth I would keep a broken teapot, it is because I have ’A Plan’ for it. A plan involving some kind of mosaic doorstep thing with plaster or cement or something. And I like the pretty colours and can’t bear to part with it. How often do you see a banana-print teapot anyway? That’s what my Mother said when she decided she really wanted it. For her birthday. So I secretly bought it for and she was delighted. So much so that when she made her first pot of tea in it, she forgot to empty it out and we just admired it on a shelf for weeks, probably months, until we wondered what the smell was. It was remnants of tea and teabags turned into a mini-mouldy-tea-compost. It was never used as a teapot again, for obvious reasons. Then the handle got broken off. And now it is destined to be turned into some crazy, haphazard doorstep mosaic; preserved and trodden on for the rest of its sad yellow life. Bananas!

4 Comments | In: Lifestyle, Trends | tags: berry, garden, new shed, paint, sea holly, shed, turquoise, wood. | #

Today I found the PVC sheet I made to cover up my bed when I lived with my Mum after university.

The Background

I made it to protect my duvet cover and pillows from the agitated affection of the cat; Mitzi. He (yes that’s right, a male cat called Mitzi. He had gender issues. We thought he was a girl), used to sneak off into my room in the quiet of the afternoon while I was at work. He would nestle at the foot of my pillows, stacked three high, supporting his deviously furry head, and curl around, paws sliding under the cover, claws kneading demonstratively into the thin fabric with its delicate embroidery, leaving dark, pin-prick holes.

Taking action to defeat him, I felt sad at the thought that I’d made his afternoons that bit less comfortable, when not long after I’d devised the PVC cover, he died. I still have the photo of him lying behind my bedroom door beneath the radiator; back paws peeping out provocatively, their pink pads rough and pink like his little tongue. I could have grabbed them and eaten them they were too cute, though his fur had begun to look mangy, yellowing. Was it the nicotine?

However, the PVC blanket was the perfect solution. I would lay it out on top of my bed performing two deterrent functions: it was slippery so would not hold any hairs if he did sit on it, and because it was slippery not warm and comforting, it put him off altogether. Cunning. No-one wants to sit on that kind of slinky-but touch-it-and-you-could-stick-to-it-surface, the kind that grips skin like a painful pinch or the sting of a plaster ripped off too fast. Not at all conducive to an afternoon nap.

Only the PVC alone wasn’t enough. It would slip, by its very nature, down the bed, leaving the coveted pillow position completely vulnerable to feline attack. I would come home from work safe in the knowledge my bed was cat-hair free, only to find him smugly licking his tail and purring in my fresh covers. Argh! So I had to alter the PVC sheet. I had to weigh it down at each end, so that it wouldn’t slide off the bed over the course of the day.

I used a collection of pretty stones and childhood marbles and little bits and bobs that I thought would complement the dreamy-blue hues of my room. I created little compartments so they wouldn’t rush and flood to one end of their ‘channel’, defeating their purpose, and split them into complimentary palettes of weight and of colour. It was quite a performance; a work of great mathematical, scientific and artistic accomplishment.

All worked well and there was only the occasional incident, like forgetting to put the PVC sheet on in the first place or leaving the door of my room wide open to temptation… Read more …

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Travel, Writing | tags: black obsidian, marbles, PVC, rose quartz, scratch patch, semi precious stones, simon's town, south africa, the scratch patch, tiger's eye. | #