Well, now I am a little tired of all the re-designs I’ve made for this cover, so this is going to be the last one. Having had to replicate a series of effects I had done on an earlier image, I then saved the Photoshop doc as a thumbnail size, and can’t reverse it. So, if I want to make further changes, I will have to go back to the original document and replicate the changes again… Enough! This will do for now!
So friend of mine, David Saunderson of The Spooky Isles, suggested that the cover for The Tourist needs to be darker and more atmospheric. So this is what I’ve done with the image. You are welcome to let me know what you think!
Below you’ll find the provisional front cover of my latest e-book – The Tourist. This is a freebie that I’m giving away, and is a ghost story set around Portchester Castle. I found the engraving in a pile of pictures I bought at auction, and thought a little bit of colouring would be absolutely perfect!
Below is the first draft of the opening to a story provisionally entitled “The Snow Witch” I am writing. Will let youknow how it goes!
The Snow Witch
The musician blows in one winter night, as the weather is at its most severe. That is why no-one sees her arrive.
She is a violinist with a distinctly exotic look. Beneath a shawl like an Eastern European gipsy, she walks in heavy furlined boots through the snow, the ermine edging of her skirt tumbling over the drifts like little winter creatures at play. Her face is a delta of narrowed chin and wideset eyes above a fine, straight nose and emotionless mouth – a line that forever promises to turn upwards but does so only rarely. The hair that pokes from beneath her white fur hat is long and straight – and dark as the winter night. Tall and lissom, she holds a violin in her right hand, and where she walks she leaves a trail of thawing snow behind her, as if she is so used to the cold that she keeps a fire stoked in her soul as its natural counterpoint.
The following day, she sets up outside an empty shop on Palmerston Road – and as people hurry by, huddled against the bitter air, she lets out from that tropical wood a stream of long, sinewy, sensual notes that flutter upwards into the winter light. She plays bewildering melodies with dips and turns and something quite alien and Eastern in them, melodies that make one or two of the locals wonder if she might perhaps be a refugee from a country with a deep, sorry history – an extreme terrain with snowclad mountains and hot dusty plains.
There is something in that music. When people hear it, it even seems that for a moment the sunshine breaks out from behind a snow cloud, and the trees shake off their white dusting in the sudden gust of warm wind that swirls around them. It is as if the sound holes in her violin are windows onto another island in another sea far warmer than that around Portsea – hot air rushing through.
As she plays, a child skips by to the noise, and an elderly lady recalling something in that melody of childhood, takes a slide on the ice with a deftness that speaks of childish delight long before the osteoporotic danger of broken hips and cracked bones and blueing bumps ever filled her mind.
At home later that day, the old lady will smile to her empty room, and with a kind of youngster’s joy in her heart, declare the house “open” – inviting neighbours and their children to come and play, and baking a cake to take it to her neighbours.
During that unusually cold winter in which the snow is piled up on the shore, and beachbound snowmen stand in pebbledashed ranks on the shingle beach like a frozen amphibious invasion force, it seems the thaw has started.
Still the musician plays – sending up into the air little notes from the chestnut box of her violin, and turning the notes, it seems, into a blizzard of sunshine.
It is a fluke of the weather that when she stops in the darkening afternoon, as the shadows gather, that the snow starts to fall again, piling up higher on that whiteness, and making a scrunch scrunch beneath her feet. Then she is gone, her fingers icy cold, her fiddle a block of icy granite in her hand. She will start again the next day.
*
Nobody knows where the violinist goes to at nights. True, over the following evenings she appears in pubs, stepping in with her trademark graceful presence and inner calm, causing locals to stop a moment and drink her in. A fine line to her jaw and large dark eyes, she is framed with a border of hair as ebony as the neck of her violin, her light brown skin a kind of caramel to savour. But afterwards? Nobody knows.
In The Barleymow on Great Southsea Street, that funny 1930s utility pub with its high windows, a local asks her “if she plays that thing” and once again she raises it to her chin and begins to send magic into the air.
In The King Street Tavern, she joins the Irish Session and weaves in a sumptuous series of harmonies to the Irish jigs and reels. A chorus of tweets flutters through the twittersphere pulling pale hordes of Uni students in, until the landlord is prompted to speak closely with her, urging her with his boyish smile to come back again.
In the RMA Tavern at the far end of the long beach that fronts the island of Portsea onto the south sea she meets Riley. Riley of the dark eyes, who looks her up and down, drinking in her skin and her notes, and feeling a sense of hunger in his body, a yearning to possess her that burns like a fire inside. When she leaves in the black night he follows her out, tracing her melted steps in the fresh snow – until they seem to vanish, suddenly into nothing – ending at a roadside and not appearing on the other side. He stands swaying on his feet, a lot drunk and a little angry and promises himself that he will have her. Yes. He will have her. He thinks it again, saying out loud to the snow in the air with a kind of frustrated ferocity. I will have her!
Then he turns, and heads back to the pub, where his guitar is waiting for him, next to a pint. As he walks, he notices the icy white powder tingling his nose as it settles on it, and remembers the little twist of cocaine in his pocket. It reminds him to pay a visit to the toilets. A little snort his solace at losing his quarry in the snow.
On Wednesday January 11th, Portsmouth Writer Hub at The New Theatre Royal, Portsmouth was visited by John Prebble, from the Arts Council South East, to talk about that “strange, confusing beast” (as one writer put it) – Arts Council Funding .
From the outset, the context John set to his talk was businesslike and down to earth. He pointed out that his job title was “Relationship Manager, Literature”, that the only other “Relationship Manager” he knew of was involved in banking, and, just like in banking, there would be a lot of form-filling before money was released.
Even his remit, “Great Art For Everyone”, was a slogan that would fit nicely on a mug, he said, cupping an imaginary one in his hands and holding it for all to “see”. With this idea of merchandise pervading his thinking, it was no surprise to hear the word “product” to describe the outcome of the work – even if he did use it a little tentatively lest he might offend the artists in the room.
John explained it was his job to get money to people with good ideas – but those good ideas had to be well-formed with a clear time-frame, ending point and outcome.
Although finance and business was implicit in the language he was using, John was explicit about what the funding was not for: “If you can afford to support your own writing project, you need not apply,” he said. A grant is not Working Tax Credit to top up your writing income. The money paid out by the Arts Council is to support projects that otherwise wouldn’t fly because the artist is short on time and/or money. So, in some ways it’s a bit like the old patronage system that 17th Century writers like Milton enjoyed.
John then went on to explain that there were four main criteria by which applications would be judged: Artistic Quality, Public Engagement, Management and Finance.
Looking at each of these in turn, the first is either vague and subjective or completely self-explanatory, depending on your perspective.
The second, “Public Engagement”, John explained, did not necessarily mean a numbers game. It might mean getting at a few people who would not normally be engaged by arts – and who would benefit from it. For example, a book of poetry is not going to get out to as many people as a popular play. This criterion is really there to require the writer to acknowledge that he or she has an audience and isn’t writing in a vacuum.
The third in the list, “Management”, really means showing a plan of how the project will be managed, and the fourth, Finance, requires the applicant to show where the money will be spent.
There are other things that the Art Council looks for in applications. Is the work innovative? Is it collaborative? (This was something that John recognised might not apply to writers) Does it have objective endorsement? What other funding streams does the project have – including the writer’s own input? Does the writer have a track record?
With all these considerations, we were taken back to the business paradigm. It is exactly these evaluations that an entrepreneur will make when backing a business idea. It was interesting to me to see this business-like attitude applied to the Arts, and, to be frank, quite refreshing.
Now I’m going to get on my hobby horse for two paragraphs, so bear with me. As someone who is at times suspicious of worthy arts projects, I have a nose for bullshit. For example, the Ultrasaurus, part of the Luna Park installation which graced Southsea Common in 2010 was a wonderful statue. However, it came with a great big pile of… well, I guess it was dinosaur shit… which comprised a badly executed plaque talking obliquely about a Serbian village. Struck by how this plaque had failed either to entertain or inform, I went looking for further information and ended up enduring the grindingly boring Luna Park video installation at Aspex Gallery. It was unwatchable, as the tumbleweed blowing across the room testified. I give that part of the project nul points for Public Engagement – unlike the statue, which was brill.
I’m not saying that public art should be easy. But if it isn’t easy, it should at least be engaging. The surrounding materials for Luna Park were, I would say, deliberately obscure in their presentation. It’s never eddifying to see a great idea disappearing up its own, albeit large, reptilian and muscular, back end. That project was Arts Council funded.
There, hobby horse now dismounted. None of this otherworldliness emanated from John. He was clear about the purpose of the grants the Arts Council gives out. His work is designed to support writers who would otherwise not be able to get their work produced. It is not his job to support commercial projects, but if one of the projects he supports is a commercial success, then that is good for everyone. For me, this was a really interesting evening.
The public art concept is not something I have considered before, and I won’t be rushing to fill in my form.
But it will be in the back of my mind should the context arise. Thank you Portsmouth Writer Hub.
For further information about Arts Council funding, go to: http://www.artscouncil.org.uk/funding/apply-for-funding/grants-for-the-arts/
The question the quizmaster asked at the Leopold pub down Albert Road tonight was (I am pretty sure):
“What Nazi used to make pesto sauce.”
Should have been “nuts are” but Pompey diction can be poor.
The answer? Well, all suggestions are gratefully received. A free e-book to the winner!
So, I published “The Three Belles Star In We’ll Meet Again” over the weekend. I thought it might interest you to see a larger version of the artwork I decided to use.
I might spice this up a bit with an extra strapline… something like: “A supernatural detective romance…”
That should keep people guessing!
Well, today was something a little special. Heading out through the streets of Southsea down to the front, I was suddenly struck by the brightness of the day. Amazing uplift of spirits, and big happiness floating in the air. I don’t know if it’s just because we’ve come out of three weeks of rain and general dampness, but everything seemed clear and bright, today.The
Walking along the common and seeing the dogs running after balls, the kids playing on their bikes, families out together and the wide, wide sky above us all, I felt suddenly like a kid again.
Was this early spring? A hint of what’s to come in the next few months, like the season’s trailer: coming soon, in a sky near you…
The Naval War Memorial on the Common cast a shadow on the grass, and I stood at its end with a childish playfulness, imagining: On a certain day at a certain time, this shadow marks the site of a buried mystery. A kiddy joy surging up inside me. Victorian white villas, the hovercraft gliding up the beach, and suddenly a series of vistas: the Gothic fantasy of the City Museum’s turrets, the Lipstick, the Spinnaker, the old Clarence Hotel now a student building.
Then there were the details. Starlings waiting in the little gondolas of the Balloon Wheel in the Fun Fayre to swoop on the chip shop, shadows of pedestrians walking across a bridge at Spur Redoubt climbing out of the sea where the bright white light was reflected on a seawall.
Then, there were flags above the Square Tower, the view of Tower House from The Round Tower – and finally, a cup of tea with the ladies at The Slipway Cafe down at Point.
This was a magic day today. Everything felt new. Thanks to this little bit of Pompey. You’ve raised my spirits on a winter’s day!
So, today I had an interview with Violetta and Jutka Zuggo, aka the English Sisters – a pair of charming women who use their hypnosis and NLP skills to teach English, and are passionate hypno-babes.
It was great fun, with the pair of them asking me about the hypnotic content of the book, and with me not quite answering them, every time… But very nearly. The book, by the way is Turn The Tides Gently, and you can find it here: http://amzn.to/
Funny moment too, when she told me she’d read something of mine, and I couldn’t remember what it was at all. Well, I’ve written a lot, after all.
Overall, great fun. Enjoy!
I have to admit it, as I get older, I get more childlike. Which makes going to the panto every year something of a special treat. It’s not often you get to sit in a theatre and scream “behind you” at men in tights on stage. At least not in Southsea, with 400 other screaming kids. So a good panto is something that sets just the right festive tone for me. It feels like Christmas.
The art of creating not just a good panto, but a fantastic one is hard, as Cinderella proves.
You walk a line between playing to the kids and playing to adults. The former means lots of brightness and colour and fun and laughter, as well as a big dash of frolics and frivolity. The latter requires a bit of emotional depth, a coherent plot and a good finale. Playing to the adults can also include (as I recall memorably from a Worthing panto last year) some HOT costumers for the woman dancers, too. It’s a cheat, that one, but it packed the houses – and the dads were extremely well-behaved throughout.
With its lavish sets, its amazing costumes and its well-choreographed set pieces with wonderful sound effects, Cinderella has plenty of the ingredients to keep the kids engaged. But this really is a kids’ panto. The story is simple, a little muddled (introducing the Fairy Godmother early in the plot takes away any surprise when an old lady later on appears who needs Cinders’s help.), but it all muddles along it a breakneck speed.
The performance of Tom Owen (Last of the Summer Wine) as Baron Hardup is warm, likeable and funny, while his wife, played by Leah Beacknell is suitably scary, and sexy. But the pace of the plot means that she is not allowed to really explore her meanness, and we don’t get a full sense of how mean she can be. I suspect her slightly sexy and cruel character has enough chill about it to make her a Bond villainess – but we are never allowed to find out.
There are some really funny lines in the play. When Prince Charming is told “You’re Fattist” by one of the Ugly Sisters, he replies after a moment’s thought: “No, you’re fattest.” And there’s plenty more where that came from.
The sets are extraordinary. It really is like wandering into a Disney cartoon. The village is fabulous, the woodland hunting scenes are fantastic, and the palace wonderful.
The costumes and dance routines really catch the eye. The kids dancing in the woodland scene dressed as rabbits is a hoot, and the dancers in shiny riding gear wonderful.
The kids in fact deserve special mention. A chorus of dancers, some of these boys and girls clearly love the stage. It’s fantastic to see.
And the Ugly Sisters, too, are mean, funny, camp and butch all at once.
All the components for a great Panto are here. The Barbie-like fairy godmother played by Tracy Shaw from Coronation Street is wonderful. But somehow something is missing.
The panto gallops to the end with a breakneck speed, and the finale in the ballroom doesn’t quite happen.
It might be that as the panto goes on, it beds in, but at the moment it needs to slow down in places, take a breath and expand out. Let the kids get breathless and excited. They will do even more, when the actors get more in control of the script.
Would I recommend it as a good night out? Yes, I would. It’s great to see the kids having a fab time. But I also know that this cast could get more out of their performances if they just allowed themselves to breathe.