Percy Jackson

Like most people I found the end of Harry Potter a little hard to deal with. No more books to look forward to. We always knew there would only be seven but the reality of getting to the end was something I didn’t really think through. Not until I held that final book in my hands and was torn between saving it or devouring it. I waited for a whole day. A day that I spent indoors too frightened to go out or turn on the television, petrified of the internet and any spoilers I might inadvertently come across. So I read it and it was over. Harry Potter gets some flack from a lot of different directions and I don’t care. I loved every book and I still do, like gazillions of others.

So that saga was over and there was nothing to replace it. A lot of book blurbs and reviews claimed that this was it , yes really, this book in your hand, this was the book that would be the new Harry Potter. But they weren’t and in the end I gave up and let the matter rest.

Then, recently, at the airport on my way to France, I picked up a copy of Percy Jackson and the Lightening Thief. I’d seen a film trailer at the cinema and thought it looked ok, so decided to give it a go. I loved it. Couldn’t put it down in fact. Later I saw the film and that was a completely different thing altogether but I won’t go into that here.

From the start I was hooked. I loved the use of familiar myths and the way that Rick Riordan is educating as well as entertaining in a way that J.K Rowling never really did, for me. It reminded me of all those Sunday films I watched as a child and yes as an adult. Jason and the Argonauts, Clash of the Titans and many more. Some might call it a rip off I prefer to think of it as homage.

The protagonist is likeable and endlessly flawed as most teenagers, well most people are. I especially love the take that Riordan gives on dyslexia explaining that most of the children of gods suffer with this because they are programmed to read ancient Greek not English. It’s a whole new slant on that teenage day dream that these can’t be my parents I must come from somewhere else.

I’ve read the first two books of the series and the other three are on my bedside table waiting to be read. I don’t want to rush something this good. And that’s the best bit too. It hasn’t ended yet and I hope that Riordan has no intentions of finishing the saga too soon.

Writing and Spirituality? Rainer Maria Rilke

I have been re-reading Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet. I must confess that the first time I read it it was all a bit of a blur. Something I always knew I should read. The first time I remember hearing of it, for my sins, was when Whoopi Goldberg mentions it to Lauren Hill in Sister Act Two. Not the most auspicious or intellectual of sources but it stayed with me none-the-less.
As I was reading in bed last night it amazed me the comparisons that the book draws with many philosophical thinkers. I have mentioned before that my friends and I are desperate to find some deeper meaning and enlightenment in our lives and as a result over the years I have read numerous tomes of self help and enlightenment.
It started with The Celestine Prophecy and the whole coincidence thing that comes with it, Everyday Zen, Channelling Auras, Tao Te Ching and Eckhart Tolle to name a few. I’ve dipped in and out of these books over the years finding what I’ve needed at that particular time and moved on. I am not the most disciplined or diligent seeker of truth but like everything else I do hope to find the time to do it properly someday.
Back to Rilke, it struck me last night, me being as ignorant as I am, that the words that he writes to this young poet are easily comparative to those of the now considered masters of spiritual enlightenment. There is nothing in this book that I haven’t read many times over the years and these letters are somewhat more eloquent than many others I have read, the man was a poet after all. His view on women and their contribution to society seem way ahead of their time and I can’t imagine these progressive, for the time, ideas having many fans in the polite society of that time. And it was his recognition that women would escape the confines of men that really fired me up. Was he a feminist? I don’t know. Before today I naively thought him a poet and a writer of letters.
Of course Google quickly informed me that he has long been considered a philosopher and Lady Gaga, someone I admire, even has a tattooed quote from one of his letters somewhere on her person.
'In the deepest hour of the night, confess to yourself that you would die if you were forbidden to write. And look deep into your heart where it spreads its roots, the answer, and ask yourself, must I write?'
Some say it is pretentious. I don’t know if I agree or think that she wanted to pay homage to something that spoke to her. I think prefer to believe the latter. It certainly is a beautiful question and one I am trying to answer in the affirmative.
So I wasn’t the first person to realise the genius of the man but at least I learned something and it gives me another common interest with the Lady herself.
Follow any of the links to find out more about the books on Amazon.

Hunting the Muse

There seems to be a collective sense of restlessness around at the moment. My friends and I have been discussing it at some length. Everyone is feeling the need to expand their horizons and find something fulfilling that has nothing to with work, material things or consumerism. They talk of finding hobbies and seeking some kind of enlightenment. For a few lucky ones there is something concrete, definite that they want to pursue but for the rest of us we find ourselves flailing around hoping to chance upon that which will bring us the answers.
This, certainly in my case, seems to be the problem; the procrastination of it all. Thinking about doing something and bemoaning the fact that there is no time to do it. I’m lucky in the fact that I have a fairly good job that means I only work four days a week but that job also means I have more than enough work to do when I’m not actually there. Could I be more organised with my time? Well I’ve certainly made an effort this year and it seems to be paying off. So why is it that there still aren’t enough hours in the day? Procrastination again.
When I finished my first, as of yet, unpublished novel I thought that would be the start of a rushing flow of ideas and writings. It wasn’t to be. Nothing has come as fully formed as that first piece of work and as a result I grew disheartened and have only recently realised I am going to have to work much harder to get it done. I’ve a few ideas but none of them as solid as that first one and I can’t seem to decide which one is most worth pursuing.
In this, my dilemma, is at least something of an answer. Listening to my friends and observing myself I’ve realised that what seems to be lacking from each of our lives has one thing in common; the need to be creative or exploratory. None of us seem much interested in earning more money or getting ahead at work. We want to be creative. We feel that this is what will give our lives most fulfilment.
So as I sit with a new notebook in front of me with freshly sharpened pencils, a rather sedentary act to an outsider, what in fact I am doing is hunting down the muse. She/He is very reluctant to be found at the moment but I’m determined not to give up. I’ll sit here for as long as it takes, hopefully. I shall not be discouraged!
In the meantime these little blogs are words on a page at the end of each day and surely that means that the muse is at least within shouting distance just hiding away for now. Maybe they’re making me wait until I’ve paid my penitence for ignoring them for so long. I quite like the idea that I must prove my worth again. All very romantic and to some completely insane but you just never know.

Here Comes the Sun

Summer has arrived and with it longer days and less clothes. It has taken me a little longer this year to warm up to the idea but it has finally happened this week and being half term I’ve made the most of it.
Drinking wine in the garden and eating bread, olives, cheese and salady things. Trying to be healthy and failing mostly but its back to work next week and if you can’t gain half a stone on holiday when can you?
Yesterday we cycled to a little country pub we know and sat out by the river drinking pear cider and eating chips; getting excited about our upcoming jolly to the south of France. It was an idyllic day and there aren’t enough of them. Everything has to come together at the right moment, the weather, the mood, the right friends being free. With this being the start of English Summertime I fear it maybe over before it’s begun. This is why the other half and I have made a deal to make the most of each day, for the second year running, weather permitting or otherwise. We did it last year and whilst everyone else was moaning about not having much in the way of sunshine we had a great summer that cost very little and was lots of fun. So I urge everyone to do the same. It’s all weather so enjoy it for what it is come rain or come shine.

Like Bees to Honey by Caroline Smailes

I have followed Caroline's writing since her debut novel In Search of Adam was published. Her use of language and the way she plays with space on the page, fonts and dialect are unique and cleverly presented adding that something extra to each of her books. The page and the book itself are as much a part of the story as... well the story.

When I heard about the subject matter of this new novel I was excited to read it. It seemed an age from that first glimpse on her "magical blog" until actual publication date. The buzz surrounding this book was palpable. Everyone was excited! People were talking about it all over the web. Then it was released; and ahead of schedule. There it was, as I walked into my local Waterstone's, on the front table the first book you see as you walk through the door. The cover is marvellous! Better in the flesh than it appeared on the photos. Delicious and summery; smelling of sun, sand and the dust of Malta.

The whole adage that you can't judge a book by its cover, in this case, completely wrong.

From the opening page to the end I was hooked, spirited away to an island that before reading this book I had associated with churches and very little else. It is due to Caroline's delectable use of description that Malta is now on my must visit soon list. Over the years Armistead Maupin's San Francisco based Tales of the City and Mma Ramotswe's Botswana have inspired wanderlust and luckily I've had the privilege of touring California whilst the other I hope to see one day.

The sense of place, in this, Caroline's third novel certainly gives Joanne Harris' s France a run for its money. As for the characters, each are complicated and exquisitely drawn. A toenail painting, reality TV addicted Jesus, a northern lesbian ghost and an Italian visionary to name but three.

The protagonist's, Nina's, journeys both physical and spiritual are absorbing, emotional and unputdownable. This is a book that will stay with you for a very long time after reading. There is even a cameo from one of the characters from her first novel which I was most pleased with myself to notice.

This is certainly the best book I have read of this year so far and I think that the time for Caroline's popularity is about to soar like a jet plane on its way to a tiny island in the med. If you haven't already go out and buy it immediately; Like Bees to Honey can be bought here.

TEAM DICK

Not being the butchest of people you can imagine my delight when confronted with the joyful task of taking a group of students on an adventure day. So what will we be doing? I asked with trepidation

Orienteering? Fair enough a bit of map reading I can handle that. Cycling? Well I cycle to work every day so not a problem. Climbing? Frightened of heights and absolutely no upper body strength. Raft Building ? In bloody October you’ve got to be kidding me.
The day arrives and it’s pissing down with rain and at least fifty below zero; well in my head anyway. The students are split into teams and I give them the task of giving us a snazzy team name. TEAM DICK was the result. The ensuing jokes about being head of the team and “one might call you Dick Head” were hilarious and I smiled enigmatically and took it all in my stride.

The activities came in the order I’ve listed and as the morning went on and we headed towards my own death by fright I began to wish I was somewhere warm. I really thought a career teaching Performing arts was about as far away from butch as you could get. I thought I would spend my day flouncing around calling people darling and lovey and I would have been bored within ten minutes.

The students we took were BTEC First; the kids who hadn’t done so well in GCSE’s because in the majority of cases they’d been ignored and considered trouble makers. In my opinion the best students there are. You give them some attention and praise then watch them achieve and blossom before your eyes.

I almost managed to reach the top of the climbing wall and the support and cheering was heart warming. They looked out for each other and they looked out for me. I could ask for nothing more.

By this point though we were bottom of the leader board and the task I dreaded most loomed ahead. Raft building. We lost three of our team to fright so it left five of us to build the thing and paddle it to the island. We knew at this point there was no chance of catching the other teams up point-wise. Did we give in? Hell no we rushed in and built our raft before everyone although to be honest it was more than a little rickety. We waited for the guide to check it was sea worthy but he didn’t he just told us to go. Confused I was sure he wasn’t going to let us risk life and limb without the thing being checked over by health and safety and pat tested but no. So we carried it into the lake sailed it to the island and it was only on our way back that the other teams got into the water. By the time we got halfway back our raft began to come apart. There was only one thing for it. We jumped into the icy depths and towed the bloody thing back to shore were it promptly dissolved. It had done its job and we were back on dry land.
We kicked arse in the way that only those with nothing to lose can do.

I’m knackered and sore now two days later but it was the best day and I got to wear my second wetsuit of the year (the first occasion being pictured above). I’m hoping it’s the last time I wear one this year.

The one where I get published

In June I entered the Tonto Books short story competition which was judged by the delightful and delectable Caroline Smailes and am very proud and pleased as punch to announce that (drum roll) I was successful.

My short story Sleeping on trains will be included in the anthology Even More Tonto Short Stories. It’s in there with some very impressive writery people and I couldn’t be happier. Yay me!

How pretty is the cover?