 | These dark mornings, Mr A often finds me pottering about the house in the dark. “Why don’t you turn on the light?” he says. I shrug, but of course he can’t see me. “I like the dark.” In the safety and familiarity of my home, I prefer to wait for the natural light to seep in gradually through the windows, rather than with a sudden burst of artificial light. Of course, it’s never completely dark in a town with a streetlight at the end of the garden and, if I’m at the computer, it emits light of its own. But, within these wishy-washy constraints, I cling on to what passes for darkness as long as I can. |
I like dark in my fiction also – or perhaps it’s more that I’m averse to artificial light. I read and write to shine a torch into the corners where cobwebs linger amongst the grime. But I’m not shining my light to cancel out the dark, but to reveal what lurks beyond the glow of the scented candles, what, until you beam the light in its direction, goes unseen.
When my darkness finds a readership, a light is turned on in my heart. If I can get you to examine the murk while resisting the urge to clean it, I’ve done what I set out to do. So it’s been a fabulous year for me, with the publication of my debut novel and of the lovely Twitter feedback at #SugarandSnails and reviews reflecting that connection back to me. For many readers, Sugar and Snails isn’t actually a dark novel, but one of hope, and that’s fine with me. (There’s even a fair bit of humour to be found within it if you gel with my style.) But I wrote it from my personal darkness, and I’ve enjoyed illuminating discussions this past couple of weeks with the visitors to Sherri Matthews’ Summerhouse exploring what that might mean.
With the excitement of publishing my novel, my short fiction – apart from the weekly flash fiction challenge – has taken a backseat, so it’s time to put that right. Today is National Short Story Day and how fitting to choose the shortest day of the year (in the northern hemisphere) to celebrate the pleasures of storytelling. As of last Friday, I have 64 published short stories (excluding the 99-word flashes) on 44 different platforms (some, sadly, now defunct). I’ve arranged them into themed virtual annethologies, which actually includes seven classed as uplifting and upbeat.
In the spirit of end-of-year reflection, however, I want to flag the eight published this year and to thank the various editors for showing confidence in my words. One is available only in print, but you can read about “The Witch’s Funeral” on the Open Pen website. (This is probably the most optimistic of all these stories and, yes, it’s about a funeral – you have been warned!)
When my darkness finds a readership, a light is turned on in my heart. If I can get you to examine the murk while resisting the urge to clean it, I’ve done what I set out to do. So it’s been a fabulous year for me, with the publication of my debut novel and of the lovely Twitter feedback at #SugarandSnails and reviews reflecting that connection back to me. For many readers, Sugar and Snails isn’t actually a dark novel, but one of hope, and that’s fine with me. (There’s even a fair bit of humour to be found within it if you gel with my style.) But I wrote it from my personal darkness, and I’ve enjoyed illuminating discussions this past couple of weeks with the visitors to Sherri Matthews’ Summerhouse exploring what that might mean.
With the excitement of publishing my novel, my short fiction – apart from the weekly flash fiction challenge – has taken a backseat, so it’s time to put that right. Today is National Short Story Day and how fitting to choose the shortest day of the year (in the northern hemisphere) to celebrate the pleasures of storytelling. As of last Friday, I have 64 published short stories (excluding the 99-word flashes) on 44 different platforms (some, sadly, now defunct). I’ve arranged them into themed virtual annethologies, which actually includes seven classed as uplifting and upbeat.
In the spirit of end-of-year reflection, however, I want to flag the eight published this year and to thank the various editors for showing confidence in my words. One is available only in print, but you can read about “The Witch’s Funeral” on the Open Pen website. (This is probably the most optimistic of all these stories and, yes, it’s about a funeral – you have been warned!)
January saw the publication of "And the Winner Is …" by Flash Fiction magazine and May "All the Way to Zokandu" by Honest Ulsterman, where I was pleased to find myself in the company of blogging friend, supporter of Sugar and Snails and eminently deserving Bath Short Story Award Winner, Safia Moore. In a similar way, I was delighted to have my story “A Man is Swinging” selected for the Journal of the Nottingham Writers’ Studio (where I had the first of my book launches) and go along to the journal launch in September to hear everyone read an extract from their story or poem. November saw the publication of "Tattoos and Rubber Gloves", my fifth with the fabulous ezine, Amarillo Bay. And finally, Newcastle-based Alliterati, where I’d never submitted before, took three of my stories: “How Can They Do That” (p10), “Rebekah’s Foreskin” (p16), “After Icarus” (p30). All this in the month that Nottingham, my nearest city, is awarded UNESCO City of Literature status, one of only nineteen in the whole world.
Better move on, before I get too upbeat (although, as my bio states, I do relish the freedom to contradict myself), to the latest Carrot Ranch challenge to write a 99-word story on spreading the light. And, of course, mine is in honour of National Short Story Day; if the light is too blinding, pop back on Christmas Eve for a couple of ghostly reviews!
Better move on, before I get too upbeat (although, as my bio states, I do relish the freedom to contradict myself), to the latest Carrot Ranch challenge to write a 99-word story on spreading the light. And, of course, mine is in honour of National Short Story Day; if the light is too blinding, pop back on Christmas Eve for a couple of ghostly reviews!
Locked in, was how they described her. “The lights out and no-one home.”
And so it seemed. She was unmoved by massage, music or aromatherapy, indifferent to extremes of heat and cold.
The storyteller hunkered down beside her. “Once upon a time, in a faraway land …”
She continued to sit, statuesque, her eyes glazed, like a doll’s.
“… a cruel king kept his daughter in a gilded cage.”
They all heard it. A sigh from the depths of her being. They all witnessed the light flicker in her eyes. “Go on,” they said. “What happened to the girl?”
And so it seemed. She was unmoved by massage, music or aromatherapy, indifferent to extremes of heat and cold.
The storyteller hunkered down beside her. “Once upon a time, in a faraway land …”
She continued to sit, statuesque, her eyes glazed, like a doll’s.
“… a cruel king kept his daughter in a gilded cage.”
They all heard it. A sigh from the depths of her being. They all witnessed the light flicker in her eyes. “Go on,” they said. “What happened to the girl?”
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