Testing my laminator so I made a poster of some illustrations from Spikes for Hank. Funny how my writing seems to be existing in a parallel universe of sorts. It is just as close as it is distant from my everyday timeline. A quiet, yet constant background. Looking back at it, there are so many things I would probably do better now, but then again, if I had not started publishing then, maybe I never would. Funny how things turn out, right? No regrets. Proud of my learning curve. I may have become a slow learner over time, but I still learn. #learning #noregrets #childrensbooks #writing #teaching
“The storm on the outside still raged on, but in The Forest across the river, the trees were not shocked by the power of nature’s rage. Erv stood stoically, remembering weather far worse than this. Gertrude wrapped some branches around her neck and chest, keeping herself as warm and as dry as possible to preserve her opera voice. Curly looked at Selma, so thin and tall, standing there proud, the beech bending, but not breaking in the wind. He worried about her. They had been through so many storms before; she was indeed very resilient, but neither of them was getting any younger, and he had such a bad premonition this time. He tried not to think it out loud; she hated being fussed over and he loved her too much to show disrespect. A sudden flash of lightning rocketed from the sky and lit the whole forest like a stadium. The crash of thunder mixed in with a blood-freezing cry. Curly screamed in utter pain. Lightning split his trunk from the treetop to the ground. The soil fought back and repelled the strike, managing to keep the common oak’s deep roots intact. Clinging on to its roots, the wider part of Curly’s trunk remained firm, whereas the thinner half split apart, unable to hold itself upright. Curly’s eyes betrayed defeat following its downfall, his branches too injured to tie the split end to the rest. Two long, slim, black-and-white beech branches curled up around the broken-off part pulling it back like ropes, away from the ground, and letting it rest on the trunk of the beech. “It will be all right,” Selma sent her thought to Curly. Despite the tumult of the storm, he heard her clearly in the depth of his mind. “I will keep you safe,” the beech whispered. As the wind kept shouting at the heavy raindrops, competing with the noise of the thunder, The Forest of Trees echoed the pain of their oldest common oak. The trees began humming their song of sorrow in unison as the storm above slowly yielded into rain.”
From The Forest of Trees, chapter 13 Tillsworth’s Finest
The steep edge of the cliff was dangerously close. The young dragon lost his balance and his body plunged downwards into the misty abyss. He hadn’t planned on diving. Pushed? A split second before falling, his tail got stuck between rocks, as if clinging on to stay, but then unhinged itself and joined his tumbling body mass. Despite being a teenager, his muscular torso was fully developed, the size of two grown humans, and he fell down fast, desperately struggling to fly. His heartbeat drummed through each cell of his body and mind. Sheer fear blended with a sense of despair as he plummeted towards a dark silhouette below him, which was not his shadow but another other creature. The young dragon’s double eyelids were paralyzed with fear and not blinking. His head screamed in agony as his own talons slashed his skin, falling uncontrollably. His eyes caught flashes of the sky, forest, cliff, the dark silhouette below, then the sky again… The plunge seemed to be gaining speed, with no knowledge or nature’s markers as to how far away the bottom of the abyss lay. His vision was blocked by the nemesis or friend below. The air was moist and scentless, difficult to breathe in, speed severing his breathing attempts with no mercy. A flying novice, not having mastered the technique, he fo-cused on sheer survival. He felt his life depended on the silhouette below him. He cleared his mind of all other fears and scenarios his immature mind could have readily created. With all the strength he could muster, he contorted his muscles and flipped his body in the air to gain some semblance of flight control. He wrestled with his own wings, tangling in flight like a heavy cloak, until he finally managed to spread them. The move yanked him back for a second or two, and he blinked in shock, looking around for orientation, but nature blended into a kaleido-scope mixture of green, grey, purple, blue and black, with blinding flashes of sunlight. He was finally flying. His widespread wings magnified the size of his body four times, but did nothing to diminish his fear, but flight gave his mind a second to think clearly. A sudden realization lit up in his brain; he was not afraid of crashing – he was terrified of losing the silhouette below. It, too, still hadn’t reached the bottom. The dragon blinked, natural instinct finally prevailing. He flapped his wings, strong and flexible, folding them closer to his body, then lowered his head and rocketed towards the creature, closer and closer, till all the sounds faded away into darkness…
“Suddenly, there was a huge splash. A beautiful dolphin jumped up and down to greet them. George was relieved.
The dolphin was splashing so hard that the shark fin soon disappeared in the distance.
‘This is Bouncer!’ Sophie presented him to George waving her wing like a royal page.
George smiled. He had always wanted to see a dolphin up close.
‘Hello, Bouncer. I am George. Are we going to ride on Bouncer’s back?’ George asked Sophie, all excited.
‘No, silly, it’s too far for him to carry us to your town!’ Sophie screeched and laughed. ‘But Bouncer and I know a secret!’
‘You have to dive in the water, deep down. Find the first big rock to your left, down at the bottom!’ Bouncer said.
‘Squawk! It’s a surprise!’
George raised his eyebrow. Still, he was curious, so he took a deep breath and jumped into the water. He dove deep with his eyes open and kept looking to his left.
He saw the rock. But there was also something else.
‘Wow!’ George thought, because he couldn’t speak underwater. He kept swimming.”
These paragraphs are from my simple children’s book The Good Pirate. I had so much fun making it, even more fun teaching it, and developing tons of additional teaching worksheets, riddles and a board game to include into the Funbook edition. (see sample below). The paperback and the ebook of the colourful edition contain the full story, all illustrations in colour and follow-up questions after each chapter, and also include some follow-up activities such as tongue twisters, riddles, etc. The funbook edition contains all of that (and more) in black-and-white, but has a larger format and the activities are photocopiable on A4 paper. The chapters are short and easy to read to children and by the children themselves. There are rhymes, songs and the text lends itself to role-play very easily.
The story deals with a simple man who wants to win the heart of the woman he loves, but being poor and very unlucky, he decides to try getting rich by becoming a pirate. Naturally, he goes through lots of adventure, but eventually realizes that he cannot help being a good man, so he becomes a good pirate:).
Even though, as always, I now find tons of things I could improve in the book, even add onto it, I am still proud of it and love hearing from my colleagues who work with preschool or lower school years, especially from those teaching English as a foreign language, how much fun they have from the story, the worksheets and the game, and how much children can actually learn from it. One of my fondest memories telling this story was a debate with the little ones on whether it was possible to live the life of a pirate or not! You should hear their answers.
Funny (or sad), but I still remember several of my friends, after reading some of my published poetry books, asking me if I was OK or how I was feeling. Come to think of it, I had never put much thought in my poetry. It was always a way of blowing off some steam or venting, or simply painting a word picture. It was and always has been about emotions.
Not sure about you, but even when I read or teach poetry, it is never the number of syllables, the perfection of the rhyme rhythm or the poetic devices used that make me think a poem is good or not. Just like with people. It is never their hair or their voice or their walk… It is always the emotion – how something or someone makes you feel.
The poem below is from Versus Verses – Love, a collection some people thought would be about swooning and somebody’s eyelashes. But love comes in many forms, shapes and sizes. The most difficult part of it is loving ourselves, isn’t it? You learn it as you go along and the lessons are never easy, but they are worth it.
So, yes, I am OK. Sometimes I am fine, with all the nuances of meaning that word carries, sometimes I am wonderful, sometimes I am frustrated, angry and sad; sometimes I am drained and uninspired… The frustrated, angry and sad I often deal with through poetry; it is a good thing when I can handle them with it – release them into verse and feel relieved, clearer, lighter.
The ‘drained and uninspired’ is horrible. It just eats away at me from within, gnawing relentlessly. Not many things help me get rid of it – it usually requires time and letting go. What worries me is always how long it will take – the longer it gnaws at me, the weaker I feel. Let’s think of it as skin peeling – the old, dusty, dark layers need to be decrusted and fall off, in order to make room for new light and energy. Hmm, let’s hope it doesn’t take too long…
It’s been a long time since I thought about beach reading. Everyone has their own style of either beach-reading or not. I loved light romance and intense thrillers. The following is an extract from Chapter 1 of my light-hearted attempt at a chicklit romantic comedy. It was never meant as anything deeply philosophical or intellectually stimulating . just some cheerful, old-fashioned fun. For me as an author and a human being, writing this was recovery therapy after having finished The Forest of Trees. And I love it for it. The novel is now 5 years old.
AVERAGE DAYDREAMER (excerpt)
***
‘Bam!’
A bomb goes off near the hospital shelter and I cover my ears with blood-crusted hands. It doesn’t deafen the noise of the battle, but it comforts me for a second. I peek through a crevice on the heavy metal door. I manage to discern Dr Bronson’s silhouette through the flashes of guns, fire blazing around and clouds of wind-swept ashes masking the horrors of war.
His muscular torso rises from a pile of smouldering planks, broken furniture pieces, and dead bodies.
The other nurses and the children behind me are all crouching in the farthest corner, crying and comforting each other, already giving up on Dr Bronson. But I know he’ll make it!
I watch as he rises from the tragic scene like a phoenix. He starts to move towards the shelter. Towards me! I know he knows I will not give up on him. He knows I’ll wait. We’ve been through so much these past few months in Medics without Borders, and we rely on each other without reserve.
His strong arms are tired but he still manages to pick up and carry a child, a wounded boy, dodging bullets and moving towards me unswayed.
Ten steps more… seven steps…
Guns blaze again, louder than before. He falls! Half-blinded by the flash, I see him falter. My heart feels as if a samurai sword slashed it in two… I hear nothing else. My breathing gets so loud and deep that it muffles the war and the nurses who are trying to hold me back. My hands open the shelter door and I run outside, desperate and fearless with love.
Dr Bronson’s body lies on the ground, lifeless and not moving, like an impenetrable shield over the child’s body.
My heart skips a beat, but then I hear a faint breath.
Dr Bronson lifts his head and our eyes lock. Oh relief!
When our arms intertwine, our breathing is in sync. He rises, resting on my shoulder for support. His leg is badly injured, but he still won’t leave the boy. Together, we carry the child back to safety, through the wind-swept ashes and the mind-numbing noise…
***
Three months later, in our beach lodge on a secluded tropical isle, I place the breakfast tray on the white bedstand. He is still sleeping, arms stretched across both pillows, face rested and his full lips forming a sexy smile.
My Dr Bronson!
Ocean waves gently caress the sandy shore as I remove the immaculate, semi-transparent curtains from the wall-to-wall windows.I hear his breathing change. His husky voice calls to me.
‘Good morning, Mrs Bronson!’
I turn around, proud and in love, my bare feet savouring the deep, fluffy white carpet.
Oh what a heavenly man! And all mine.
He stretches like a powerful tiger across the white sheets and his naked body makes me tremble. The mischief in his eyes is irresistible! My lips quiver and my knees feel like jelly. My thumb strokes the wedding ring from the inside of my palm.
I smile, conveying to him everything he already knows and feels himself, and more. My throat goes dry as I feel myself pulled to his muscular torso like a magnet.
He taps the bed gently. My tongue draws a wet layer over my lips. I can’t wait. I step forward and…
***
‘Thump,’ I fell from the tram seat, my face gluing itself flat on the floor, next to a set of smelly, overworn sneakers, my hands too busy clutching on to my purse instead of protecting the face.
Reality check! A major one!
I spit the filth and drool from my mouth, and struggled to unglue my forehead from the floor.
The chewing gum, which had been there for just enough time to get that semi-dry quality, had obviously been waiting to serve this particular purpose. I got up, mercilessly removing the gum from my skin, and it resisted my efforts, sneaking underneath my nails. Cheeky sod! Wet wipes helped, I hoped. I fixed my hair and adjusted my clothes, mumbling something like ‘low blood sugar’ to save face, deluded into thinking anyone in the tram cared.
It is so difficult to write fantasy for any age group, to create something that’s never been read before and yet something that has the elements a fantasy fan would relish. It is like with music – sometimes it seems as if everything’s been said already, because how many more new combinations of musical notes and rhythms can one create in centuries?
And then somebody makes it and creates something worthwhile, different yet familiar, and challenging to the mind and heart alike. Jean Gill did it with this unusual fantasy. I takes a while to grow on you and, when it takes hold, you appreciate the strong roots it has developed.
The author has managed to create two opposing new worlds, both dancing the thin line between what you’re told and what you feel you should believe, each with its own set of rules, each with its own heroes and villains, both constantly in a strange battle yet interlaced and dependent on each other. One world is set to rules, ‘perfection’ (fantastic play on words here, because what IS perfection, right?), the other one a natural wilderness. And then a heroine who not only wants to mix the two but feels compelled to from her inner most core.
Mielitta’s inner most core is what will surprise you – her connection to the bees. (Had I read this book in my teenage years, I would have developed a keen interest in biology, trust me!) Usually heroes are provided with supernatural powers – in Mielitta, it is her natural powers that are unbelievable. The author manages to weave Mielitta’s growth and development from a bullied misfit to a natural force so carefully, never giving off to much in advance, so that you sometimes feel just as confused with it and just as full of questions as Mielitta herself. This is very clever, because this is a heroine who is in it for the long run, not just a one-book wonder. Her relationships with other characters are so intriguing, especially her adoptive father (that one impressed and shocked me so much) and her protégé Drianne (who better to take up a protégé than a bullied girl herself, only to discover that her protégé is in fact… no, no spoilers…).
It is difficult to write a review and not give out too many spoilers. So let me just mention that, as always with Jean Gill’s books, the readers will not be left wanting (except for a sequel), will not feel cheated or underestimated, will get a glimpse into different worlds and creatures, will fall in love with some and hate other characters, will feel vindicated when it is needed, will learn a lot about interesting things (the philosophy of archery, the intricate power play in the world of bees, to name just a few), will be kept guessing about some things (I love the what-ifs and maybes you are drawn into), will be treated to exquisite language use, and will thoroughly immerse themselves into the story.
Imagine me loving a fantasy book that had no dragon in it? An amazing achievement by the author, I must say. I would truly recommend this book. It will make you think about how we treat nature – not just the outer world but our inner one as well. Make your time count with clever stories.
“The Forest of Trees had once been just a simple forest, a beautiful, rich one at that, until slowly but steadily, trees changed for some reason.
No two trees were alike and for hundreds of years their variety had been the source of joy and beauty. All the trees had something in common, yet each of them was unique. Their singularities were intricately woven into the tapestry of The Forest.
Oddly enough, all the beautiful years and shared experience hadn’t brought wisdom. In time, the trees became disagreeable and lost compassion or patience for each other. They started to push each other and over-shadow each other’s light. They stole each other’s humidity by extending their roots. Some scared away their neighbour’s treetop dwellers – birds, bats, squirrels and bugs, pretending that their branches only got caught up in their neighbour’s treetops due to strong winds. Branches grew winded at night, and then curled up to hide during the day. Veiled by darkness, they would stretch out their coils, steal and smash their neighbour’s fruit in sheer malice. In daylight, dried up twigs were discarded, thrown in the faces of other trees. Only the sun and the moon witnessed the conflicts.
The Forest War for territory was just as stupid and pointless as any other war in history. There was quite enough room for all the existent trees, their offspring and then some, not to mention all kinds of creatures scurrying and flying around. However, enough is never enough where bad blood is concerned, even when it is not blood at all.”
An excerpt from Rhino Magic, my story in Looking into the Abyss:
‘Mummie, mummie, come here quickly! You’ve got to see this!’
Ginger dragged her feet from the kitchen to the living room for the hundredth time that day. There was no gingerly step left in her to justify her name, not after a sleepless night spent trying to get her son’s fever down.
‘What, honey?’
She struggled to sound interested, and failed miserably. Jake was kneeling on the bed and pointing at the TV, his blurred eyes sparkling with excitement, above the gloomy eyebags and thin cheeks.
He used to be so big and strong that they called him their beast. No seven-year-old should have to suffer kidney problems.
‘The man in the show… the documentary… he said the rhino is considered to be the unicorn’s cousin. Unicorn! Can you believe it?’
Thank you for inviting me onto this project, @Paul White.
“The power of words has always fascinated me. There are limitless possibilities in the use of only one of them. Its power stems not only from its lexical meaning, but also its historical connotations and changes, previous contexts, media and user, audience, location and timing. As is always the case with a superpower, a word can be used for good or evil, and alas, misunderstood or misused. But whatever the effect, the desired one or its complete opposite, effect takes place, and it makes a change or a difference, or both.
It never ceases to amaze me how many emotions and ideas can stem from just one word. When you see it, hear it or say it, regardless of whether its effect is immediate or delayed, it is simply unbeatable and irresistible. It’s like magic, and I do like magic, just like any other child trapped in an ageing body.
One such word, hidden within a bundle of other wonderful and horrible, yet all impressive words, as I read it in one of my all-time favourite stories, grabbed my attention instantly. It was ‘threshold’. Mind you, in the story I was reading, it was completely unimportant, and simply denoted the entrance to a house in a description. But to me, it was that word which stopped me from reading and forced me to pick up a pen and write this story.
The Threshold is about change, which is different for everyone, no more or less than we deserve. The threshold is always open, but what we choose to do with the door is our choice, and ours alone.”
Anita's Haven 