Walk with my dog in the fog; or the glory of nature in her various moods

See what I did there? Aside from the crude rhyme. Personification. I gave nature a gender, made her female (as is usual) and made her instantaneously at the whim of her hormones. Three hits in such a short sentence. The fourth is that I am pagan, so naturally I do believe that these things can be personified.

This morning was utterly gorgeous, a gift. Those of you who like the outdoors will know its "various moods" and this month, as the tilt of the world dips our summer into the blazing hues of autumn, there's a lingering sense of seeing things for the last time, albeit for a while.

Each morning I say goodbye to the small beauties I see: the red and orange berries, the green-to-golden leaves, the mists that hug the valley's dips and nooks and scars.

I stood in the centre of the playing fields this morning with my dog and laughed at the way she frowned at the dawn fog. She couldn't understand why her vision was restricted, but she got over it.

She was another glory of my morning - watching her dark, athletic form take the pearlescent field with the grace and poise of a six-foot-stride. She abandoned her toy to snuffle the badger scents across the dewy grass and as she raised her head to scan the blind horizon again, her jowls dripped diamonds.

On our way back she took me on a detour and make the muscles in my legs work harder through the uneven undergrowth as I went to retrieve the again-abandoned toy.

When I looked down into the grass I thought I was seeing miniature pockets of fog - but actually there were hundreds, thousands, of grass-spider webs, nestled in the hollows of the wet grass.

Nature had played a little trick, breathed on them and made a secret visible, just for this morning. I may not see a sight like that again until next year, and even then it would have to be the right morning, at the right time of year, even the right hour of the day.

The dog ran on, I stumbled after her, a little overwhelmed and slightly giddy at what I had seen. Suddenly they were everywhere, too: hanging from the fence, captured in the dry stone wall, laced across my neighbour's hedge.

Just, wow.

Looking back to the tale about spiders that I blogged last month, I am now considering the notion that nature, too, with her beauty and her changing moods, has
breathed on me too. And if this story isn't evidence enough of that, then I need to let her breathe on me some more.

Tolkien and the seven veils

My hands are naked for the first time in 25 years.

I bought my first ring when I was 15. I was a goth and it was a silver skull, and I called it Robert after Robert Smith of the Cure (the irony of a chubby-cheeked boy ... yeah you get it).

I like rings. Until few months ago I wore several at a time, including my engagement and wedding rings. Slowly they have all peeled off. Last weekend the wedding rings were removed. It was like a Tolkienesque dance of the seven veils.

Nude, naked, unadorned. Unweighted, flexible, unmasked. Unpossessed.

Have caught myself several times studying the slight depression on my digit and wondering whether collagen would improve the nasty impression worn into my flesh over the last 8 years.

Or, is it like furniture marks in carpet - will an ice cube make a difference?

:P

How emotion & the inner us affects vocabulary

Over the past few days I've been watching a spider.

This one has been spinning a web between the wing of my car and the mirror. She's been to work and back with me several times, and here and there, you know.

I've pondered on her persistence, her toil, her unfailing ability to pick herself up dust herself off and start all over again. She's a worker, she does what she needs to survive, and she does it under less than ideal conditions.

I have been understanding the nature of toil lately. In the writing of my novel, in the other secret things I've alluded to from my life. Hard work, persistence, patience. My watchwords.

Today I was smiling as I glanced from her to the road ahead. I sped up, knowing she
could cope with speed, even on a windy day. Her web was strong. As I turned at the junction, a sudden gust rocked the car, and I lost her.

Writing this, I'm aware how cringeworthy my abandonment issues look in this context. Let's read that last paragraph again with a new ending:

Today I was smiling as I glanced from her to the road ahead. I sped up, knowing she
could cope with speed, even on a windy day. Her web was strong. As I turned at the junction, a sudden gust rocked the car, and the wind stole her.

Haha. That's no better.

Aiming for Amazon: a change of heart

So, the self-published friend, Charles Sheehan-Miles, recommended the book "Aiming at Amazon" by Aaron Shephard.

I have bought it. I am tapping my foot, waiting for delivery, and I will no doubt use it to fuel some debate here.

The change of heart was that I had thought to publish on Lulu, for those who haven't been keeping up. Shame on you.

Readings: Nothing to fear but ... jiggling journalists?

Ben Myers posted a funny article about authors and self-publicity in the Guardian today. The subject is the public readings of one's work.

"I would genuinely rather jiggle my bare genitals at an audience than do that."

*peers at the small photo of Ben Myers beside his article and smirks a little, a twinkle in her eye*

H'okay. I'm a secret show-off. Is that an oxymoron? I don't mean that I pretend not to like public speaking, I wouldn't go around saying "Oh noooooooo I couldn't!" while all the time knowing that I damn well could and wanted to.

But if you met me, you might not realise that I love public speaking, I like to hold an audience, I like to be the centre of (positive) attention. Ninja-like, I sneak my enthusiasm in there at the right moment. I just don't run around announcing it.

Aside from mention of the Myers' Family Jewels, the best thing about this article was the debate around the question of if it was fair to demand that authors should read their work in public.

Fair, when did fair come into it? I remember reading a recent article on Harper Lee and wondered how she has managed to remain such a recluse. Is it genius, that can afford to live above the hard graft of the rest of us?

I still plan to do readings. It will be nerve-wracking, underwear-changing stuff, I know. I might try and hire Ben Myers as my fluffer, if he'll jiggle.

My name is Jackie and I'm a typing perv

The BBC exploited the alleged reasons why we type using QWERTY. It's all quite interesting, my brain and imagination likes these kinds of "this is the amazing history of how XYZ developed" exposés.

What peturbed - nay, made me practically scoff at one of the closing paragraphs was the mere suggestion that we might "do away with" typing because voice recognition was advancing.

Uh. No. She's missing something here.

Call me a pervert (many will, in fact, and not only because I like to hang out in stationers' and finger the reams of A4 and fist the pretty notebooks) - but I like typing.

I began typing on my mum's old Remington Portable. I remember the 'n' key was slightly knackered, offset, twisted. I played with the carriage release, all those
pretty clicks. The bell was pleasing. Some sounds are just .... too yummy.

I graduated onto a modern typewriter, which did not have the same impact upon me as I can't remember what kind it was though I do recall it was grey plastic rather than smart black and silver metal with a leather-like covering on the plywood base. It was an 18th birthday present, practical but without soul. The 'n' key worked, for a start.

University saw me learning what a computer was - a Mac, as it happens. These were the 1980s, after all, and still the only significant computer time I had ever had, thus far, had been on a ZX81.

I have a PC now, and plastic QWERTY is my friend. I need to keep my nails fairly short - in fact, the process of typing is more pleasing to me with shorter nails.

Is it the rhythm? Is it the clunk of the keys - and we all know, each keyboards has its own personality, its unique sound and the way the keys depress.

Is it the slide of skin across the shiny faux-cubes? Is it the sexiness of the process itself - thought to finger to key to screen to audience? Is it that I'm a pervert? Who knows. Who cares?

Incidentally, my phone also has QWERTY but I don't get the same .. y'know.

*would light a post-coital cigarette now, if she still smoked*

Self-publishing for dummies?

Honestly, I don't know. But a friend who has already self-published, and who has generated a small income from it, has recommended I read this book before I jump into Lulu.

The book is "Aiming at Amazon" by Aaron Shephard (here is his blog). It could be a revelation. It might be rubbish. I don't know. When I can buy it, I will come back to it here.

I plan to buy it with my first pay cheque from a new job. New job involves writing, lots of it, and in a fun way, not in a this-is-like-a-battery-farm-for-journalists way, which is what many of us experience. Self-publishing will be slightly delayed as a result - but bankruptcy will be avoided.