Nightwatch

Ok, I should have included it in yesterday's blog, but hey, I was tired, it was late, I forgot - should write when fresh not exhausted.  But here it is, first few lines of Nightwatch.  Hope you enjoy.....

It is never silent in the city:

even in the dead of night you hear the

threat of humming lights spreading yellow oil

across damp concrete.  The gas works rumble

and as the city sleeps, the freight trains snore

and rattle and rumble a steady trail

past aching whores tip-tapping their way home.

The empty bed lies dead in cold shadows,

Cheap mattress hollowed from his latest descent

into her life, unwelcome, uncalled for.

The rest can be read in the anthology, one day.....

Gibraltar Writers

After a very slow summer as far as writing is concerned, characterised mainly by finding a way to avoiding queuing for hours at the border with Spain.  Did I say border?  It's beginning to feel more like our own Mediterranean Berlin Wall!  As I was saying, after a long, hot summer, I have managed to scrape the nib of a biro onto some paper again and clawed my way into second place in the Gibraltar Autumn Festival Poetry competition with a poem called "Nightwatch".  Second place to an excellent poem by Rebecca Faller, published in The Gibraltar Chronicle.  First verse of "Nightwatch" is printed below. One day, it will form part of an anthology of my poems, but first I have to sharpen up my pencil, fill up my fountain pen, and boot up my lap top and PRACTISE.

Because, if what they say is right, that generally you can expect to scribble out a million words of drivel before you write something worth publishing, I still have a way to go.  Not far, I hope, but still a fair way.  So practise is a must.

Which brings me to Gibraltar Writers.

Writing can be isolated and isolating.  You can only really write something worthwhile when on your own.  Not necessarily physically (above-mentioned poem having been written and honed while surrounded by loving but noisy family), but alone somewhere inside your head, in your own space and your own world that you create paragraph by paragraph.  And the more time you spend writing the less time you spend interacting with real people - social networking only goes a little way to bring you in touch with people, flesh and blood human beings with all their oddities and quirks.  And since books and stories are populated by people, writers just have to go out into the throngs even if only to glean ideas with which to draw their characters.

Gibraltar East Side (because it's different to the West)

And one way to feel a lot less isolated and much more supported and surrounded by others with the same interest in writing as you, is to join a writers group.  Gibraltar Writers meets monthly at the Sir John Mackintosh Hall, on the first Tuesday of each  month at 7.15.  It's a space and place in the month where we can put the lap top to sleep, leave the family to fend for itself and indulge in the company of others who simply can't resist the urge to write down their thoughts, weave wonderful tales, paint visions with words and want to share this with others.  We'll be sharing tips, ideas, testing out our own writing on each other, improving our craft by having others share their opinions on our work and generally supporting each other through the minefield of creating, writing, drafting, revising, editing and publishing.

Whoever you are, whatever age, whether English is or is not your first language, if you like to write, you need to come to Gibraltar Writers on 3rd December.  And if you are thinking about it but are unsure, email me for more info and so I can convince you to join us there!  jackiegirl@hotmail.co.uk  or find me on Facebook, or Google+ or Twitter (Gibtalk).

Sir John Mackintosh Hall, Gibraltar

See you on 3rd Dec with notebook and pen, or tablet, or wax and stigil or whatever you prefer to use to write!

Short story success

With the other prize winners - Gibraltar Spring Festival Short Story Competition 2013

Time to brag.  It's not something I do often nor easily, but I want to celebrate the fact that I won the runner up prize in the Gibraltar spring festival short story competition.  Okay, not the first prize, but short story writing is not easy, and I was chuffed to bits.  I'm looking forward to reading the other entries and learning from these - maybe this time next year, I'll have honed up enough to be a winner.

Here's the start to the story - the full version is due to be published in the Gibraltar Chronicle over this weekend, and I'm going to see if I can put it up for free download on Kindle for those of you who want to read the whole thing.

Like everything, practise makes perfect, so I'm whipping out my notebook tomorrow morning to work on another.  And, if anyone out there thinks they might want to have a go, I would say, get writing straight away, write every day, and don't worry about writing rubbish, because eventually as you get better, the good stuff, the words other people will want to read, will emerge.

Predictable Me

     “You’re going to love not coming to work anymore,” says Emily.  She places my cup of coffee exactly in the centre of my coaster.  The coaster is old now, edges curling, a perfect circle marked in its centre from the countless cups of coffee placed there by a parade of assistants over the years.

     I try not to cringe.  Eight years of Emily’s gunpowder-strong concoction and I have never complained.  And I shan’t today, of all days.

     The telephone’s bleeping jars the peace of the morning and Emily scuttles.  What a ridiculous statement.  Half a century of crusty offices, whinging clients and cringing clerks; of course I’m delighted never to have to come in again.

      I sip at the coffee, shudder and leave the rest.  Emily has her back turned and is taking painstaking notes of her telephone conversation.  Whoever is talking to her must be desperate with frustration.

      I sigh and flick a switch.  Despite the early hour the heat is suffocating. The air-conditioning groans into action and then buzzes like bluebottles around carrion. Within days the sounds that will come to my ears will be the sizzling of cicadas in the day and the grunt of marauding lions at night.

The Smallest of Things

The glories of new technology, that a simple photograph can be turned into the cover of a short story, and that a short story can be turned into a marketable ebook in under an hour.

Short story now on Kindle!

Having been a writer for some years but never really venturing into putting my scribbling out there into the big wide world, I have arrived at the frontiers of my first half-century determined to be able to see myself as a published writer.  And to do so, I figured I would experiment with the whole Kindle thing and signed up with Amazon's Kindle Direct Publishing.

"The Smallest of Things" is a short story, a romance, that lets the reader into Sam's thoughts as they ponder over the three most significant women in his life, and how it was a simple kiss that made such a difference to him.

I had written it years ago, and while recovering from gall bladder surgery over the past couple of weeks, I decided to look into what you have to do to get your manuscript onto a kindle.  I'm not great with technology.  I get impatient with the jargon and have a tendency to need instructions written in monosyllables, with short sentences and preferably an illustrated flow-chart.  But once I got going on  it - my current mantra is "To do is to learn" - it was not that hard at all.

One of the most important things I have learnt is about editing - I checked, revised, redrafted and checked again numerous times - but, and here I raise my hat with reverence to all editors out there - it is tough, you get blinded by the words, spellcheck programmes aren't totally reliable, you have to know your grammar and your spellings, and how you best use language.  And yes, I will probably find an error and need to update the story.  Next time I will be even more careful.  Editing is a tremendous skill, and one I have yet to acquire.

But the whole process was very rewarding.  On the heels of having won the first prize for my poetry at Gibraltar's Autumn Festival last year, I am beginning to feel that I can genuinely call myself a writer now.

I put another short story on Kindle too.  "The Promise" which speaks of the simplicity and the complexity of love also in a short story.  Find them on Kindle and let me know what you think!

Where the eagles fly

El Castillo del Aguila, Gaucin

Above the aptly-named Castillo del Aguila circle the eagles that live on these mountains.  The blaze of blue of the sky belies the cold air that bites through my jacket.  February in the Serrania de Ronda can be much colder than expected by those of us that enjoy the balmier climes of the edge of the Mediterranean. Yet there are trees in blossom, oranges weighing heavy on the branches of trees lining the streets of Gaucin, this village perched vertiginously on a crag in the Sierra del Hacho.  In the distance to the north, the mountains are still tipped with snow, while looking southwards, you can see the Rock of Gibraltar, and, beyond that, the purple edges of the Riff Mountains, looking like the vanguard of an invading army. 

Gaucin has seen its fair share of invading armies and battles.  Even without going as far back as cave-dwelling people who left traces of their stay in the cave paintings found in the nearby Sierra, nor the Phoenicians, nor the Visigoths, who left a necropolis near what is now the town, we  know that the Romans fortified it so they could watch their backs while they marched the riches they had garnered in Africa from the sea, through to Ronda and from there to the rest of their Empire.  Eagles in Gaucin in more than one sense.

The invasion of the Moslem armies from Morocco meant that Gaucin changed hands again, and was further fortified.  Like the eagles of the crags nearby, the Moors watched the mountains for miles, intercepting invaders and threats to the Kingdom of Granada, of which Gaucin was an outpost.  The Catholic monarchs of Spain fought over this place for centuries, and Guzman El Bueno died in battle at the foot of the castle in 1309.  

Violence was  a regular occurrence in these parts.  The Moors that remained frequently rebelled and even after the expulsion of 1492, the mountains were alive with bandidos, many of whom in later years were dispossessed farmers earning a livelihood from crime and the slave trade.  The eighteenth century brought to Gaucin tourism of sorts, in the form of the English from Gibraltar, who enjoyed its cooler temperatures in the summer months, as well as its rustic charm, a situation not far different from current times.

However, the twentieth century itself continued to see Gaucin suffer from conflict, with over 50 of its citizens executed during the invasion of the Nationalists in the Civil War, and the mountains hiding refugees and partisan militia opposing Franco.  Some of the elderly residents of Gaucin still remember those times.  The scars of conflict always run deep.

The town itself is as naturally charming as any of the "white towns" of Andalucia, with cobblestone streets winding up steep hills, and lined with orange trees that cast a perfume over passers by.

Tucked away in a corner near the 16th century church of San Bartolomeo, not far from a little square that overlooks the valley and lined with cafes, is the unusual Fuente the los Seis Canos, which merited a pause and a dip of the finger tips into its icy water.

La Fuente de los Seis Canos, Gaucin

Fortunately, the climb from the town to the Castillo del Aguila is relatively easy.  On the way, you encounter the pretty little chapel of the Nino Santo, dedicated to St John of God, a place also touched by the martial history of the area, as despite its sanctity, it was used as an arsenal and a place for soldiers to bed down during some of the many conflicts of the region. 

Capilla del Nino Santo, Gaucin

The castle itself, although in ruins, doesn't disappoint.  To say the view is breathtaking would be to diminish it through cliche.  And inside the huddle of stones that remain of the walls, there is a sense of safety, of knowing that you have time to arrange your defences before the enemy can get you.  And the great bell of the tower can warn of invaders to all the peasants for miles around.

Inside el Castillo del Aguila, Gaucin

To stand where eagles fly is a privilege.  Gaucin is well worth a visit.

The  town of Gaucin, seen from the Castillo del Aguila that defended if for hundreds of years.

Working it in Gibraltar

Does anyone out there know for sure what Gib's position is according to European Directives on employment?

Over the past couple of years, I have discovered that Gib's former administration has been notoriously slow on applying European directives on matters relating to the working classes, especially if that has involved making sure that ordinary people could exercise their rights.  Take the example of the citizenship rights for Moroccan workers.  This is still a scandal based on the denial of rights, and which may or may not be addressed by the new government.

Just on Friday, I was scandalised yet again, by what I interpret to be utterly archaic working practises - the sort you expect emerging from a leisurely read of a Dickensian novel.  Not only does the current Gibraltar law entitle workers to only 15 days paid leave per year (the EU directive 93/104, which is cited on said amended piece of legislation, states four weeks' annual paid leave and to most people that would mean 20 days per year statutory minimum) but it can be interpreted in such a way as to require people to work a full year before being entitled to any time off at all. Like I said, archaic.

Las costureras

How does this work in practise?  Well, say you got a job in a Main Street shop and started work on 1st September 2011 and had to wait a year to be eligible for your leave.  Your employer could tell you that you cannot have any leave prior to 2012 at all.  Some employers could make you wait until 1st September 2012 to start your leave, but let's assume that your employer is reasonable and allows you to take your retrospective entitlement of a third of a year's leave that you have accrued at the start of the new leave year in January 2012.  That means that you can have a super summer holiday of a grand total of 5 days.

Of course, the more elucidated of us know full well that staff are more productive and loyal if they also have reasonable rest breaks, and they can balance their personal and professional lives much better with adequate leave - hence the European Directive.  But the former Gibraltar government saw fit not to allow Gibraltarians the same rights as the rest of Europe.  Somehow, as a tax paying citizen of Gibraltar, although I work for a good employer and have my 20 days annual leave, I feel cheated on behalf of my fellow-citizens.  And let's be totally clear, while I'm not particularly partisan towards one or other party, it was the GSD that was in power when the Directive had to be imposed in 2000.

Now, I know - although only on a very basic level - that Gib is not fully in the "EC Club".  It has followed the UK in many matters, however, and has its own customs and tax arrangements, hence the painfully irritating border  "controls" we have to negotiate whenever we want to take a day trip to the beautiful Andalucian countryside that surrounds us.  But as a member of the broader EU, Gib surely has to follow EU Directives on a wide number of issues, such as environmental protection issues, and this should include employment law.

Or so I thought.  Perhaps I am mistaken and there are those of you out there who can enlighten me on it?  Either way, as someone said quite recently in Gib - "it's time for a change".

Posse of Poets

Some of Gibraltar's poets, or persons who write poetry, gathered at the John Mackintosh Hall for the launch of a self-published book by Sonia Golt, "Love Letters I never mailed," March 24th 2011.

Is there a collective noun for poets?  I've had a trawl around the net and in my dictionaries but could find nothing except some questionable suggestions.  Anyway, the photo above is as good a collection of poets as can be gathered together on a gloomy March evening to listen to each other's murmerings and musings (a murmer of poets?).  The other reason for the bardic invasion of the stage was to launch Sonia Golt's book, Love Letters I never mailed, in which Sonia publishes some of her stories and a novella, all in her inimitable style and mostly with a strong thread of romance interwoven into the plots.  She also includes a section which comprises an anthology of poems donated by local writers. 

The launch was well-executed.  Local "celebrities" were on-hand to provide a little bit of glitz and media-savvy; there was a well-placed and suitably well-spoken politician at hand to give an opening speech and appraisal of the book.  (Have I just said ap-praisal?)  There were lots of people who knew each other, and most indulged in varying degrees of air-kissing, earings and cuff-links clanging like chain-mail.  Some chap, also terribly well-known by all but me, provided wine and nibbles, the local press turned up and there was a guitarist who provided some calming background music to the recitation (a round of poets?)  Someone whispered that there were television cameras there.  At a gathering of poets? (or rabble of poets?)  Gibraltar is either highly literate, or the literati are highly media-sensitive.  I have yet to cast my vote on that one.  (What about, a sonnet of poets?)

I struggle with taking up the title of poet (a denial of poets?).  This is a title conferred to one by others, and I'm not sure that it is earned by merely penning some rhyming words from time to time, or non-rhyming words that by virtue of their complexity, or by reciting words in theatrical terms with a certain waving of the arms to punctuate their meaning.  I put words together sometimes, and their rhythm, or the shape they make as they fall together on the page, creates an image or plucks at an emotion, or even shapes a previously amorphous thought into something tangible, and I dare to call it a poem.  So to recite publicly a selected set of words was a struggle for me.  Hence the shaky delivery and daft expression on my face (below)

Jackie Anderson, looking decidedly uncomfortable in front of mic and camera.

I have to say, that nerves and the sense of impending disaster as my turn at the microphone approached did not detract from the enjoyment I felt at listening to some excellent poetry and discovering that there is an untapped bedrock of talent in Gibraltar and its environs. (A peppering of poets?)  Some of it was not so great and some of it was overstated.  My offering came across as trite and undeservedly underplayed, but I write, an essentially lonely passtime, and I am most comfortable in my solitude and away from the limelight (perhaps, a struggle of poets).

What the event did do, besides the book launch and the mention of the charity towards which some of the proceeds will be aimed, is to uncover a love of poetry in a small town, and a variety of styles, backgrounds, skills and genres, which makes for a rich soil in which to grow yet more, and more skilled and mature poetry. (A garden of poets?) I'm determined to give the setting up of a writers' group a go, so that some of those that feel that their skills are never quite good enough, can learn from each other and keep growing in their skills as writers - poetry or otherwise - because, as soon as you think you know it all and there is no more to learn, you may as well pour your ink into the sea and chuck your pen in the bin.  Unless you are learning, listening and reviewing your work,  you may as well stop, because nothing you write nor recite, will ever be any better. 

Besides events like this, wouldn't it be great to have story-telling evenings?  Or open mic sessions at  local pubs? Or jam and slam sessions? Perhaps something on internet radio, or You Tube, where networking is full of mystery and subterfuge and the themes are dark and dangerous (a huddle of poets?).  I hope the poets pictured above are with me on this - any comments welcome and anyone who wants to come to a first meeting of a writers' group - media and genre non-specific - leave a comment and I'll let you know when (a council of poets?)

In the meantime, well done Sonia for bringing some of our local poets to the public attention, and giving a few of us the courage to admit that we are not just writers of words, but crafters of poems, weavers of dreams, conjurors of nightmares, tellers of tales, observers of reality and creators of fantasy.  A pride of poets, perchance?