January free draw

My new novel The Letters isn't out until the 2nd of March, but I have ten sneak preview copies to give away as presents in my January free draw.

There are two ways to enter:

1. Leave a comment on this post or email me with the title 'January free draw'. This gives you one entry.

2. Send the following to your booky friends on email. If you forward it to one friend, you get one extra free entry - forty friends gives you forty extra entries. Don't forget to copy me in, or email me to say how many people you've forwarded it to.

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Hello - my name is Fiona Robyn and I'm a novelist - good to meet you. Your friend is sending you this email as they thought you might want to win a free copy of my debut novel, The Letters. To enter the competition visit http://www.plantingwords.com/2008/12/january-free-draw.html, or email fiona@fionarobyn.com with 'January free draw' as the title. If you want extra competition entries, forward this email on to your booky friends - if you forward it to ten friends I'll give you ten more free entries. Don't forget to email me and let me know how many people you've forwarded it to.
Thank you for reading,
Fiona Robyn
http://www.fionarobyn.com/
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There - I hope that's not too complicated.

The competition is open to people all over the world, and I'll announce the winners at the end of January.

Good luck!

Phooey to New Year's Eve - here's something else instead

I don't like New Year's Eve.

I don't know if it's because it usually involves staying up late and drinking (neither of which I do) or if it's the expectation that you'll be in a big group of happy friends (being happy) that makes me feel contrary, and makes me want to be on my own.

I do privately relish the thought of a new year - all those blank filofax pages - what might they contain? I do like the opportunity to reflect on what I'd like to try and do better this year. I'll do that instead, quietly, and give you a poem.

I like Franz Wright's poems very much. Here's a very appropriate poem for me this year from his latest collection God's Silence - I shall try to remember it, especially the last line, and I'll post more on a related note tomorrow. I hope you too manage to find a way to celebrate the new year in your own way.

*

Publication Date

One of the few pleasures of writing
is the thought of one’s book in the hands of a kind-hearted
intelligent person somewhere. I can’t remember what the others are right now.
I just noticed that it is my own private

National I Hate Myself and Want to Die Day
(which means the next day I will love my life
and want to live forever). The forecast calls
for a cold night in Boston all morning

and all afternoon. They say
tomorrow will be just like today,
only different. I’m in the cemetery now
at the edge of town, how did I get here?

A sparrow limps past on its little bone crutch saying
I am Frederico Garcia Lorca
risen from the dead–
literature will lose, sunlight will win, don’t worry.

Franz Wright

How I Live Now

People have been telling me to read Meg Rosoff's How I Live Now for ages, and I finally did.

I wasn't expecting it to have so much sex and violence in it, or for it to be so edgy or quirky.

I was expecting it to pack a punch, and it certainly did.

Definitely worth a few hours of your life.

Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life

Thank you to Jo for recommending this book, which I finished off over Christmas and which was very tasty.

Amy Krouse Rosenthal tells us the story of her life in encyclopedia form - an alphabetical collection of little random quirks and snippets.

I like the humour, the ordinary-ness (ordinary-ness is always good) and the entries that gave me a little frisson of 'yes, it's like that for me too!' like the best comedians.

Here are a couple from the 'E' section to give you a taster...

EITHER

It's either I don't like you. You are just like me. Your presence confirms much of what I don't like about myself or I like you. You are just like me. Your presence confirms much of what I like about myself.

*

ESCALATOR

One would think that by this point in my life, I would have outgrown the fear of getting my shoe caught in the escalator.

Look what I got for Christmas....

A PINK WHEELBARROW!

I am inordinately happy with it.

The spots you can see on the picture come separately, and I haven't stuck mine on as it looks much more beautiful in plain pink.

I used it for the first time yesterday, when I carted a bag of compost over to the veg patch where I split the last of last year's garlic bulbs and pushed the cloves into the dark earth in rows.

What was your favourite present?

Happy holidays and my Year of Books x

So, I'm off for Christmas.

Thank you to all the readers who've been reading since the beginning. Thank you to the brand new ones (and everyone in between).

Thank you for those who also stop off at a small stone or a handful of stones.

Thank you to those who leave comments, or send me emails. Thank you to those who prefer to lurk instead.

I've only been here since June - it feels like much longer. I like it. I've made a few new friends. I've enjoyed looking for the right words, and trying to put them in the right order. I've learnt stuff. I've found some marvellous new blogs.

2009 is going to be my Year Of Books. The Letters will be in the shops in March (I know, I keep banging on about it) and The Blue Handbag in August. I'll even have the hardback for my third novel, Thaw, by December. I ... CAN'T ... WAIT ; )

I hope you'll be there to share it with me.

And I hope you and yours have cosy, sociable, tasty, chilled, sparkly, wonderful holidays. x

Goodbye Adrian Mitchell

The Bloodaxe poet Adrian Mitchell died on Saturday.

I was lucky enough to be taught by him on an Arvon poetry course about ten years ago. He was unfailingly generous and encouraging, and I remember him getting quite agitated about not being able to get through to one man who was determined not to hear any feedback that would help him to improve his writing.

More than how to write poems, I watched him and learnt a few things about how to live carefully - how to pick up litter, how to listen to people, how to speak the truth.

He read poems for us one night. One poem made me laugh, and then the next made me cry - with grief, or with a brimming warmth. I don't think I've cried so often at a poetry reading since.

Adrian's obituary is here, and you can hear him read here. And here is one of the poems he wrote for his daughter - one of the ones that made me cry that night (as it did just now when I read it again). Goodbye Adrian, and thank you.

*

Beatrix is Three

At the top of the stairs
I ask for her hand. O.K.
She gives it to me.
How her fist fits my palm,
A bunch of consolation.
We take our time
Down the steep carpetway
As I wish silently
That the stairs were endless.

Adrian Mitchell

Will you cry?

It is very odd to write a story and release it into the wild.

Lovely Caroline and lovely Nik have taken photos of theirs. Clare spent a single day reading from cover to cover, and wrote a lovely post to say so.

Vanessa has told me she's taking her copy to the Antartica, where she will read it under an iceberg.

Will people find a way to be fond of Violet, or will she be too prickly for them? Will they cry in the same places in the story that I do?

It is very odd to write a story and release it into the wild. Very odd, but what a privelige. What a gift.

Naughty materialistic Fiona and her red iShuffle

I discovered a new world this year when someone gave me a gorgeous tiny silver iPod Shuffle.

I've heard some brilliant audiobooks, including a fascinating conversation between Julia Cameron and Natalie Goldberg about the Writing Life and a truly beautiful introduction to zen meditation with Jakusho kwong-Roshi - Breath Sweeps Mind. And the music, of course.

I ran it over with my car by mistake, and although it looked a bit battered it carried on working, until the headphones went a bit wonky. I could have bought new headphones, but I really wanted a red one...

My red one arrived yesterday and I'm very happy. I'm sure it'll give me as much pleasure as my laptop, which was more expensive than the others because it's blue. I don't really feel bad about getting a whole new iShuffle -these small pleasures are important!

PS I couldn't find an image that showed how utterly gorgeous the red iPod Shuffle is, so here is a random man looking very pleased with his.

Thank you psycho therapist, and vegetarian onion gravy

I've just spent a very fruitful half hour reading lassie and timmy (is that what the blog is called?), written by 'the psycho therapist' who appears here in my comments section from time to time.

There is no space to make comments on the blog, and no email for the author. It's really bugging me this morning that I can't say 'thank you' to her for her writing.

I'll write my thank you here instead, and she may or may not see it. Maybe it doesn't matter? Maybe she doesn't write because she needs thank yous?

It still bugs me. I think it might be partly because I'm envious of PT's elective elusiveness. I have sprinkled my email address across the internet like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs.

A part of me is ravenous for recognition (but I also know that this bit of me won't feel full however much I get). And another part of me is very content to know that my words are out there in book and blog form and that they may or may not be making people think/feel better/feel something. This healthier part of me doesn't need to hear any praise, but receives it gratefully as a kind of gravy (vegetarian onion gravy, of course).

Yet another part of me says thank you because I think I should - the dreaded thank you letter, the fear of things being 'out of balance' in the give and take of relationships. I always try and give more than I get - it's safer that way.

But it also bugs me for the pure and simple reason that I like to say thank you to people who've given me something helpful or precious. Not because I ought to, but because I want to.

Lapcat Fatty

Meet Fatty.

We call him Fatty (his real name is Salem) because the vet told us off when he was a kitten. He's not fat any more - he just has a lot of fur around his stomach. Honest.

When I'm on the computer in the office, he likes to pat my hand with his paw in an attempt to get me to stroke him instead.

This morning I am typing from my living room (when I feel skivey I do my work in the living room - it feels different) and he attempted to lie in the small sliver of lap between laptop and stomach.

I think he wants to be a laptop.

My baby has arrived and she's beautiful

When the delivery man knocked on my door at nine o'clock this morning I could have kissed him.

I restrained myself. Instead I took a deep breath and ripped open the top of the cardboard box and there it was - The Letters - my book. Look - there's my thumb - it must be real!

I've been dreaming of this moment since I was seven, when I made my own books by stapling folded paper together and designing my own covers.

Anna and Em at Snowbooks have made a truly beautiful book inside and out, and the quotes they've chosen from Caroline, Jacqui and Susan are perfect.

I'm not a huge fan of hardbacks, but having seen how modestly sized and lovely this one is I'd suggest you might want to treat yourself so you don't have to wait until March for the paperback. You can get it direct from Snowbooks (worldwide delivery) if you want to be sure of receiving it before Christmas, or for a discount from Amazon UK or Amazon US (it should be available there soon fingers crossed).

Thank you Snowbooks. Happy Fiona. I feel like Snoopy did when he did his dance.

And the puppy runs away over and over again

Once again courtesy of the Tricycle Daily Dharma emails (sign up here) -

For some, [the] task of coming back a thousand or ten thousand times in meditation may seem boring or even of questionable importance. But how many times have we gone away from the reality of our life?--perhaps a million or ten million times! If we wish to awaken, we have to find our way back here with our full being, our full attention. . . In this way, meditation is very much like training a puppy. You put the puppy down and say, "Stay." Does the puppy listen? It gets up and runs away. You sit the puppy back down again. "Stay." And the puppy runs away over and over again. Sometimes the puppy jumps up, runs over and pees in the corner, or makes some other mess. Our minds are much the same as the puppy, only they create even bigger messes. In training the mind, or the puppy, we have to start over and over again.--Jack Kornfield, A Path with Heart

I don't know about you, but my puppy also appears when I sit down to write my novel. And when I try to respond to anything in a non-habitual way. And when I exercise (or it would if I ever got round to doing any).

Just look at that face. They can't help it. Be patient with your puppy.

Our Christmas tree is alive with birds

Our Christmas tree is alive with birds. Most have tabby-cat coloured feathers and white heads or throats. Two are peacocks. One is blood red. They balance on the tips of the branches as if they might take off at any moment.

Behind the birds, wrapped between the green-scented branches, hundreds of pin-pricks of light blaze and fade, blaze and fade. They make a kind of music for your eyes.

In the foreground Silver is curled up on the sofa, one cheek resting on her arm. As I watch she draws her head in towards her body, turns her chin up. Now she folds her paw over her eyes, as if the light is too bright. She's smiling.

Behind her, the woodburner window has turned black. I go over and slide the black lever across, using our special lever-sliding stick, a notch cut into the end. The embers come back from the dead - glowing red, pulsating, breathing, then all at once the wood bursts into rich flame.

I put my poetry book onto its stomach and turned on my laptop and write this down. Why? Because I wanted to tell you.

Exclusive extracts from The Letters just for you...

The hardback of my debut novel The Letters should be available any minute now, but in the meantime you can read exclusive extracts here.

If you'd like to find out what happens to Violet you can pre-order the paperback now at Amazon UK for a bargain £5.99, or buy it direct from Snowbooks for UK or overseas delivery.

I'm in the process of organising a March blog tour and have 24 blogs signed up so far with 7 slots left. If you might be interested in hosting a leg, drop me an email.

Have lovely Fridays. I'm going to attempt to find a Christmas tree that will fit in our cosy living room.

Wrapping paper and one night stanzas

Today I shall mostly be wrapping presents.

I received two submissions of small stones this morning from people I don't know.

I love how the web acts as a big old fishing net, or a giant, um, web - browsers skipping and hopping from link to link and ending up somewhere new, somewhere they're happy to be. Like wandering down side-alleys and finding the perfect chocolate shop.

Thank you to Claire for a lovely write-up on Read This Magazine. Another happy web meeting.

Wanting Sumptuous Heavens

I treated myself to The Best American Poetry 2008 this week, selected by my new favourite poet Charles Wright.

Last year's collection was very disappointing, and I gave it away before I read more than a quarter of it. From a brief look at the poets collected in this book, I already know that it's going to be full of treasure.

I have Christmas cards to make, and work to do, but I couldn't resist a little flick through. Here's a marvel, by one of my favourite poets/writers (A Little Book of the Human Shadow is genuis and I'll probably talk about it another time) - Robert Bly. Enjoy.

*

Wanting Sumptuous Heavens

No one grumbles among the oyster clans,
And lobsters play their bone guitars all summer.
Only we, with our opposable thumbs, want
Heaven to be, and God to come, again.
There is no end to our grumbling; we want
Comfortable earth and sumptuous Heaven.
But the heron standing on one leg in the bog
Drinks his dark rum all day, and is content.

Robert Bly

Whatever suits you

The car in front of me on my way home last night had a numberplate of 'MEP'. Member of European Parliament, I thought to myself. Thank God there are people out there who are willing to do that dreadful job.

And then I remembered that most MEPs are probably MEPs because they wouldn't want to be doing anything else. Just like most accountants are accountants, most dog-walkers are dog-walkers, most writers are writers. Because somehow, it suits them to be doing the job they are doing.

I'm also including people who don't enjoy their jobs, because somehow it 'suits them' better than the alternative (the fear of leaving, the fear of failing... whatever it is). I don't believe much in accidents. The jobs we're in and the way we feel about them can tell us a lot about how we are in the world.

This reminds me of an article on Tess Gerritsen's blog about how we write (via Jane's site, thank you). In it she reminds us that the only way we can write (forge our careers, live our lives) is our own way.

It would be much simpler if someone else could tell us what we should be doing. But I've never liked being told what to do. I like not wanting to be an MEP. I'm even sort of fond of my struggles, because they are my struggles. Everything in my life is there because it suits me - however much I might rail against it. Acknowledging this is the very beginning of change.

Update on my joke repertoire

Since I posted about my feeble joke repertoire last month, I have two new jokes.

Courtesy of Neil - Two parrots sitting on a perch, one of them says 'can you smell fish?'

Courtesy of Nik - Two fish in a tank. One says to the other: Hey, do you know how to drive this thing?

These are my favourites so far. I didn't like the one about monkey sick.

There. I'm going to do something more useful (and much more literary of course - I am a writer) with my Monday morning now ; )

Hedgehogs and ordinary things

I'm still very much enjoying The Elegance of the Hedgehog, and thought this passage was particularly pertinent to yesterday's post...

Over to our narrator, Renee - hedgehog-like concierge of a grand Parisien apartment building and secret culture-hound/intellectual...

Those who feel inspired, as I do, by the greatness of small things will pursue them to the very heart of the inessential where, cloaked in everyday attire, this greatness will emerge from within a certain ordering of ordinary things and from the certainty that all is as it should be, the conviction that it is fine this way.

Here's to the greatness within ordinary things.

Stale small stones and skipping a step

For the past few weeks I've been struggling with my daily small stone. I just haven't been able to find anything I want to write about.

Yesterday I had a sudden realisation. I've been skipping a step.

I've been walking through my days casting about for something to write about. Is this interesting? Could I describe that?

I've slipped into doing it back to front. The first step is - open your eyes. Become quiet. Notice what is there. Leave a space for the world to show itself to you.

As soon as you do this, small stones are everywhere. They rise of their own accord. All we have to do then is copy them down.

Plant a tree for every book you read...

I've just stumbled across Eco-Libris - a wonderful site which allows you to plant a tree for every book you read. They have a blog too. This is what they say about what they do:

Let’s start with the bottom line: we believe in providing people with easy and affordable ways to take responsibility for their actions and go green. We don’t believe in preaching doom and gloom. It’s not our style. We do believe in taking action and in the power of small changes to make a big impact.


Hear hear. I've just planted ten, but I must admit I've got a bit of catching up to do....

...I have wasted my life

At the weekend I receiving this wonderful book of poems by Charles Wright. I only rarely find a new writer who I think I could have a long and meaningful relationship with, and I think Wright might be one of them.

I first discovered him through his poem 'After Reading Tu Fu, I Go Outside to the Dwarf Orchard', which has been up on my wall all year.

It reminded me very much of a poem that helped me fall in love with another Wright many years ago - James Wright's 'Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota'. I can remember reading the last line and thinking 'wow!'.

Last night I was wondering, what is it I love so much about these sad poems? Strangely, the melancholy in both poems has the effect of uplifting me. Why would that be?

I respond powerfully to writers telling the truth - which is why I love Anne Lamott, and Raymond Carver, and Lorrie Moore. These poets aren't sugar-coating it. Life is full of disappointment, and then we die.

The observations in the poems are exquisite. Alongside their melancholy, surely these poets must have also loved their lives to have noticed these things and to have written them down?

I think the whole thing combines into a kind of joy laced with grief - the beauty of Autumn leaves falling, or finding a flower more beautiful because we remember that it will fade. Maybe it's not helpful to examine my responses anyway. I respond, or I don't. Do you?

*

After Reading Tu Fu, I Go Outside to the Dwarf Orchard

East of me, west of me, full summer.
How deeper than elsewhere the dusk is in your own yard.
Birds fly back and forth across the lawn
looking for home
As night drifts up like a little boat.

Day after day, I become of less use to myself.
Like this mockingbird,
I flit from one thing to the next.
What do I have to look forward to at fifty-four?
Tomorrow is dark.
Day-after-tomorrow is darker still.

The sky dogs are whimpering.
Fireflies are dragging the hush of evening
up from the damp grass.
Into the world's tumult, into the chaos of every day,
Go quietly, quietly.

Charles Wright

*

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in the green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

James Wright

Kenneth Branagh and less gulping

I like a good detective story, but I was especially impressed with Wallander, the new BBC series featuring Kenneth Branagh as the eponymous Swedish police detective (adapted from Henning Mankell's novels).

The film was beautifully shot - you can imagine the camera-people (or is it the director that does that?) framing each image as if they were about to make a painting. And best of all, the scenes were s...l...o...w. They left space in between the words, and lingered on faces and the landscape. It's only when you watch something that isn't shot at 100 miles an hour that you notice how fast you're used to travelling.

This dovetails nicely with this Guardian article I found via Katherine's blog on 'slow blogging'. It is a tribute to those bloggers who take their time when writing posts (a rare breed).

I would like to extend this tribute to an equally important group of people - people who read blogs slowly. Slowly-written posts can only be properly appreciated by readers to give space to their digestion. Here's to less gulping.