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Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts

Sunday, 8 December 2024

In the Ascendant

 

Christmas traditions fireside chat
By the Christmas fireside

A few years ago, someone, somewhere not too far from where I now sit typing these lines, declared that there was no such thing as Gibraltarian literature. Well, that sparked off an outpouring of well-argued and well-written remonstration. If I recall correctly, and my powers of recollection are not great these days, I chipped in to this local debate. Of course there was a Gibraltarian literature. Young, and not particularly voluminous, but it was there, and just waiting for the talent lurking in the shadows of this unique city to feel confident enough to emerge. It wasn't even nascent, as someone sought to deem it. It simply was.

Fast forward to December 7th 2024, to City Hall, where Christmas festivities included a story telling session for kids, a writing workshop and a fireside chat with a panel of three, two of whom (myself included) were published writers and one of whom really should go ahead and write her own book (preferably including some of her recipes for mouth-watering cakes). 

"Haven't we come a long way in terms of writing?" said one person at the writing workshop.

"Definitely," said another, "I get the feeling we're standing at the brink of a huge...resurgence I was going to say, but it's not a come-back, it's a starting point."

"You can sense the rocket boosters have been lit and the take off has begun," said another, "it will just accelerate into orbit from here."

I guess in a roomful of writers we were going to get all manner of analogies and metaphors.

There is definitely a sense of uplift when it comes to the art and craft of writing in Gibraltar. The past couple of years have seen an increasing number of publications, including poetry anthologies and the remarkable Patuka Press literary journals, there have taken place several well-attended and constructive writing workshops, the prize funds for the annual short story and poetry competitions have been increased and the government-sponsored writers' initiative to support a young writer through to publication of a piece of work is going strong. Gibraltarian playwrights are having their plays performed abroad, this year's Literary Festival included a day-long workshop given by Dr Sarah Burton and Prof. Jem Poster, both published authors from Cambridge University, and there is a rumour that a link has been made between the Government and a publishing company to help Gibraltar writers submit work through the traditional publishing route.

There is a growth in confidence among Gibraltar writers, a sense that it is worth the long hours of mulling and scribbling, deleting and starting again, frustration and elation that is all part of producing a reasonable piece of writing. There is also the added element of a newly-found sense of release that writing in llanito is also part of our culture and just as valid as literature as writing in either English or Spanish, and we have had works, including two poetry collections by Jonathan Teuma, published in the past year or two. As I have said in previous posts, there is still much more to be done, and there needs to be effort by everyone who wants to see writing elevated to stand shoulder to shoulder with other art forms. Writers need the support of government at times, but can and should also work together at independent initiatives at others, just as Patuka Press has done.

Patuka Press literary journal the upper town
"The Upper Town" is the latest issue of Gibraltar's first literary journal by Patuka Press

"The Upper Town" is available from Amazon - treat yourself to a copy by following the link below:

The Upper Town

I find this all very heartening. As a writer, my greatest boost and still my source of support and inspiration is a writers' group, the Medway Mermaids, that I first joined in 2006. I am still a mermaid, much to my grandchildren's bewilderment, and I meet my fellow mermaids online once a month. We share and critique each other's work, we offer help and support and gentle tips for improvement, and we organise (or rather, our wonderful head mermaid, Sue, organises online workshops given by experienced writers, from published poets, to novelists, to creative non-fiction writers. I love attending workshops. These are my perfect excuse to exit the day to day world that distracts me far too much from writing, and focusing on doing what I love. It's also a way for this introvert to get out and meet people with a similar interest. One day it will bear fruit, I tell myself.

This weekend's workshop at City Hall was run by Melissa Bossano and was attended by some lovely people, some of whom I know and whose work I admire and some I have never met before but felt privileged to meet. I hope to be reading some of their incredible writing soon. Melissa helped us tap into our sensory perceptions of winter, and to link this as much to character as to setting. We all know from English lessons how Dickens used the depths of winter to introduce the harshness of Scrooge's character, but these techniques are harder to put into practice than they are to read and it is these small moments in a workshop that go such a long way to improve your own writing.

We also worked on memories, finding ways to recall moments in our own lives that would inform, colour or inspire new work, from poems and pieces of fiction to writing of memoir and adding colour to non-fiction. I don't think I was the only one to leave City Hall with the seed of a story idea that had been sown in that workshop, so thank you Mel!


Christmas short stories

The current project, because I've become a bit of a seasonal writer, is to add to my collection of short Christmas stories. But don't fear, I will be back to writing ghost stories again shortly after New Year - I wouldn't want to be away from ruminating on the dark and terrifying for too long.

As for the fireside chat, it was plain fun, chatting about Christmas traditions with Sharon Garcia, the talent behind 'Piece of Cake' bakery (their cups of tea and slice of apple pie are just the best afternoon treats) and Manolo Galliano of the Gibraltar Heritage Trust, who has just released his latest book "Pan Dulce and Mince Pies". Afterwards we tucked into Sharon's pan dulce (que bueno!) and some mulled wine. 

A lovely start to a weekend that has continued with my dipping into the latest Patuka Press journal, "The Upper Town" which has just arrived at the bookshops and ordering "Luciano", Humbert Hernandez' novel, launched just a few days ago. As I said at the start of this post, Gibraltarian literature has switched up a couple of gears. As the year comes to a close, the future of writing in Gibraltar is looking brighter than ever. 


pan dulces and mince pies book
"Pan Dulces and Mince Pies" by Manolo Galliano and photography by Victor Hermida

Friday, 30 December 2016

Christmas, New Year and goodbye to 2016




Reflecting on our lives, on what has been happening in past months and planning ahead to future months is part of the mid-winter season.  Whether you think about it as making New Year resolutions or whether it is a deeper evaluation of life, your business, your career or what you plan to achieve as a writer in 2017, the short days, dark nights and the possibility of pausing over bank holiday breaks make this is a good time for thinking, learning from what has been, and looking ahead to doing things differently, living life better.

Thinking back on 2016, it has been a year of the unexpected.  In politics we have seen Brexit vote, the strengthening of the far right, the rejection of the establishment (not sure what that means, I'm still reflecting on that one), the triumph of Trump and the trumping of moderate policies, more women in positions of power than ever and yet power concentrated in fewer people with more and more communities disenfranchised, disenchanted and disengaged.  It feels as if society is teetering in a  precarious position.




Meanwhile, because the world seems keener to observe the lives of celebrities than to take an active role in society, we are reeling from the deaths of many famous and talented entertainers and artists.  As 2015 petered out we lost Lemmy, and each month seemed to bring a gasp of shock and countless RIP messages on Facebook.  Bowie, Rickman, Wogan, Prince, Reynolds, Fisher .....oh, the list is too long to go into them all.

There have been scandals in sport, notably football (a sport dealing with scandalous amounts of money I suppose will inevitably court foul play), and there have been many triumphs (go Andy Murray!).  I became quite engrossed in the Paralympics because I cannot but admire such talent and determination to overcome incredible physical obstacles.  The paralympians are an inspiration.



All of which adds up to incredible fuel for the writing engine.  If ever at a loss for an idea for a story, a character in a novel, a play or film or any writing, 2016 can supply themes, outlines, plots, characters, sub-plots, turns and twists which can be adapted to almost anything, and enough drama to fill bookshelves galore.

For my part, I am still in reflective mode rather than planning mode, and here is one of my Christmas poems, "I know it's Christmas", which was published last year in the Gibraltar Chronicle.  I can't help thinking that this time of year makes loneliness, old age, loss, more poignant than at any other time, especially given how busy we all seem to get leading up to Christmas.  When it comes to spreading cheer, why reserve it for Christmas? Why not make it a point of giving to charity, volunteering to help out the poor or the lonely or the needy every week instead of just once a year?  Or keeping in close touch with family and friends?

While this Gibraltar Writer reflects and plans for the year ahead, I wish all my followers a very happy New Year, and may 2017 be calmer and kinder to all of us.



I know it’s Christmas

Now, I know it’s Christmas time because I’m
Knitting toys with odds of wool left over
From years of saving scraps, mend and make do,
And candy cotton scarves with matching hats
For fashion-conscious girls with ironed-out curls,
And neatly cabled tops with Aran yarn
For outdoor lads who sail and fish and run;
All to be set aside on Boxing Day,
Then neatly parcelled for giving away.

And I know it’s Christmas time because I’m
Measuring jugs of sugar and milk
And breaking eggs into bowls of white flour;
I’m kneading and stirring, the mixer whirring;
Figs dried, dates stuffed, pudding spiced, topped with nuts,
Almonds are sugared and fruits are candied;
The fridge and the freezer are stuffed and crammed:
The ham is hung and all the spuds are peeled –
Shame that for this there’s only one mouth to feed.

Yet I know it’s Christmas time because I
Hum silly tunes to a radio’s strong beat,
Eat one choc a day as an advent treat,
And I shuffle about in reindeer socks
To dress the old tree in sparkling gold stars.
I hang tiny Christmas baubles from the
Wrinkled lobes of my ears, drooping slightly
From the weight of so many passing years.

 Well, I know it’s Christmas time because the
Chill black shadows in the streets have long been
Draped with brightly coloured lights that flash a
Welcome to over-burdened shops, where glint
The fangs of smiling salesmen as they mumble
“Sell, sell, sell!” under mince pie brandy breath
In time to chirpy tunes and piped out bells.

I really do know it’s Christmas because
My room is scented with orange peel
And cranberries cooked with cinnamon sticks,
And I peg red stockings on a string line
Re-read my three cards and turn on TV,
And set aside my coppers and mulled wine
In case carollers call to make it all real.

Oh, how I look forward to Christmas time:
The chestnuts have all been roasted and the
Turkey has been carved, a glass of sherry drunk,
The snow-white table has been laid for one,
The only Christmas cracker has been cracked
And on my head I place a paper hat,
And raise a flute or two of bubbly wine.
I stand to hear the Queen in ritual speech
Then wait for that nice girl from “Silverline”,
On this, another lonely day, to call
And wish us “Merry Christmas” one and all.

by Jackie Anderson


                                                    

Monday, 16 December 2013

To Hear an Angel Sing

It's Christmas.  It's the season of all things fun and jolly, bells ring, there's wassail bowls and turkey and pudding, and loads of shopping, tree, presents, bells ringing, choirs singing......

But not for everyone.  I've personally been pretty lucky not too have too many tough Christmases, but I have spent time with those who have.  This story is for those who have nothing, nowhere to go, no-one to turn to.  Winter is always harsh, and midwinter is always dark, and only after the darkest night comes the light of a new day.


To Hear an Angel Sing    

 "It’s one of those nights, and here I am, leaning on a gravestone, squinting up at the church and struggling to breathe.  The cold is the kind that slices into your lungs and so you hold it in a little, just enough for your head to stop reeling and to delay the pain of its nails as it rasps its way out of your throat.
     I pull my scarf up to cover the tip of my nose and exhale into it.  That way its warmth stays with me a little longer. 
      It’s pink and fluffy.  The scarf, I mean.  I didn’t choose it.  It’s not really my colour; clashes terribly with my red curls.  Not that anyone can see them.  It’s the longest it’s ever been, my hair.  Mum always kept it cropped close to my scalp.  Saved hassles with lice as she dragged me from school to school, always one step ahead of the man that fathered me.  Kept its real colour hidden too.  Life’s not always easy for a skinny Scots boy with red hair and freckles.  God knows how much fighting my knuckles could have taken if those Geordie lads had seen ginger curls.  They’re tucked neatly under the matching hat now. 
     I’m not complaining.  To be honest, I would have cried with delight when the woman clipped past me and dropped them into my lap - if I hadn’t been too dozy for tears.  That’s the problem out here.  You need the daylight for scavenging in bins or looking out for a better spot to spend the night.  Or, if you’ve got the energy, to look out for a handy coffee morning where you can warm up and fill your belly with Garibaldis. 
     But at night you  have to watch out for yourself and you sleep as deep in whatever bits of rag you can gather together.  You sleep with one eye open and look out for Old Bill, or dogs or drunks, so during the day you sleep.  You can’t help it." 


The rest can be read by downloading the story from Amazon.  I'm still startled at how easy it was to upload it and have my friends and family across on both sides of the Atlantic purchase and read it.  I got  feedback within minutes - all of it positive so far, glad to see, my sensitive ego can only cope with "constructive" criticism.