Cornflakes, Gravy and a Change of Plan

Lots of you who read this will have already bought a copy of Cornflakes and Gravy, and for that I am extremely grateful. Some of you have bought more than one!

But my little poetry ‘bookling’ (not really a chapbook, and besides, that term is just so grown up), was never meant to be sold via Twitter. A well-known, wise, and much-published children’s poet (oh, and brilliant, of course!) told me that he used to make his own books, to sell at events and school visits, before he had a published book of his own. I was already sticking poems into a notebook, to use as a poetry bank, for visits, but hadn’t given any thought to having something for the children to keep.

So, I planned my National Poetry Day visits and events, got bookings, and made booklings. There was swearing (mostly contained to the writing shed), and there was a fair bit of raging at inanimate objects. Eventually I was happy with how the bookling was looking and felt excited about selling it for just a few pocket-money pounds.

Then some personal stuff happened. Then some more, and then some more. After a lot of thought, I decided to postpone/cancel all the immediate visits and events and focus on myself and my family.

***

The bookling waited for me. It said it was ready to be read, ready to be shared. It said What was the point of buying a long-armed stapler if you’re never going to use it? It flirted with the notion of flaunting itself on Twitter. I listened, set up a Ko-fi account, and you lovely people have actually been buying it! I am so grateful, especially when I know that it has been shared with children.

This is not a sob story (I am not a fan of X-Factor-style teary backstories), it is Thank You, and (full disclosure) I-still-have-some-copies -left. I am now re-booking events and visits with a festive spin, and Cornflakes and Gravy will be coming along for the ride. Hopefully I will sell a few copies, but more than that, it might introduce some children to the fun side of poetry, and show them what can be achieved with a passion for what you do, a home printer, and a long-armed stapler.

Blogs, Platforms and a Dodgy Metaphor

Imagine that is me in the picture. There I am, surveying the Twitterscape, ready to share my basket of wordy picnic goodies with all my writing pals, who will be along in a minute. Except that a storm is on its way, and they don't come. They don't bring their curried scotch eggs for me to try, or their elderflower and pineapple fizz. I won't be sharing out my cloudberry Bakewells and spiced elk cheese.

And so, I pick up my still-full basket and walk to a different hill, with a different view. Here there is no storm, and I find a familiar seat to perch on. Perhaps if I let them all know, they will still join my picnic, and I might even meet some new friends, who bring dragon cookies, and a flask of positivitea.

I will stay on Twitter until the end. It is my writing home. But as things look wobblier than ever for the little blue bird, I have set up on Instagram @attielime, and will endeavour to blog more regularly and update my website more often. I have put a lot of time and love into Twitter and got so much from it. I'm sad, but to quote someone I know, "That's just the way it is.".

I really hope that I get some more subscribers to my blog post alerts (hopefully they're active now), and if you're someone who is a DM pal then my email is on the website if you want to say hi. And who knows, maybe, just maybe, the storm will blow over and the big friendly writing picnic is back on. I'll bring the biscuits!

Just add nuts

This is a mini blog post. A postling, a postette, a posticle.

Image: Unsplash, Mae Mu

If you write anything today, make it new. Make it fresh, make it just a little bit different. I don’t mean surreal, or wacky (don’t get me started on screwball and zany). Just promise me that you won’t write about diaphanous skies, or anything being as calm as a millpond. Instead of putting cheese and ham in your writing omelette, chuck in some pistachios (if you did this in real life, you know who you are), or a dollop of mayo. Just a little taste of something to tickle the reader’s tastebuds in a way they have never been tickled before. A fresh image, a made-up word, a twist in a rhythm or a sting in the tail.

Some days all we want is to write blankets-and-mashed-potato familiarity (plenty of those days here recently), but if you’re lucky enough to have writing time on your hands today, chuck in some metaphorical pistachios, and see where they take you. Or don’t. (But do write. Please write.)