Thursday, 27 August 2015

SWC #7: Some of the Trees

Today I'm linking up with Ashley's Summer Writing Camp for the last time. It has been massively enjoyable for me, and if you still haven't checked out Ashley's blog then you really definitely should.

Writing Prompts



I have not 100% stuck to the prompt. (What can I say, I'm a teen rebel.)

This is less a short story, more the opening of a novel. I intend to write a novel called Some of the Trees one day. It shall be fabulous.

It's set in the Republic of Ireland (so I expect you to read all the dialogue in an Irish accent).

Maire is pronounced my-ra.

The places mentioned are all real, but after a preliminary internet search I don't think they have fairy pools. Creative license, yes? But "Liscannor" does mean "ringfort of CeannĂºr", so points for that, right? Liscannor is a village in County Clare. 

It's on the coast.

This is a rowan tree, and if you didn't already know what one looks like, you should go outside more often.

img_0145.jpg (3264×2448)
This is the kind of pool you're imagining. 

~***~

Some of the Trees

The woods outside the village were always listening.


When she was a little girl, Maire tried to explain this to her parents.

“Look,” she’d say, “that tree is watching you.”

But they didn’t understand, and so as she got older, she stopped telling them. She still visited the woods, though, and felt the trees’ invisible eyes. 

On the day Maire’s best friend decided they were no longer talking she went to the fairy pools after school.

Maire had spent the past few years getting used to Hannah shutting her out, but this time there was cold, cruel finality in her eyes. She had walked off to the bus with Laura and Seonaid, laughing in a loud, ice-coated way and casting one derisive glance back at Maire. She could not stand getting on the bus after that so now she walked along the forest track, tears stinging her eyes.

The fairy pools lay in the glens along the valley. These ones, in the woods that cloaked Liscannor, were not as big as the ones in Ballyalban nor as famous as those in Kinvara, so there were almost never tourists snapping pictures of them, but they were deep and sparkling and Maire loved them. She slumped on the bank. The wet of the autumn grass was seeping through her school skirt, but she was too tired and too miserable to care.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose up in the old sense that the trees were watching her. There had been an incident, years ago, where a boy entered these woods and never came out again. His father, searching for him, had likewise disappeared. Some muttered they’d got on a plane and started again, far away from their family. But there was an air of unease about the case.

Maire had never been afraid, but now a sense of the unknown crept over her like mist.

In Celtic myth the rowan tree is the home of the fey, and that is why the fairy pools were so named: a clutch of rowans stood on the bank, casting a red reflection into the water. Here more than anywhere Maire could almost catch the sound of the woods breathing.

The woods, the rowans, the disappearance of that boy: it was all tied up with why Hannah was cutting her off. When they were young they had played here and made up countless stories about the fey that lived in the trees, but when they started secondary school Hannah had relegated the games to secrets. Then she had stopped playing altogether.

For years now she’d been complaining that Maire was weird about the woods, that she lived too much inside her head, that she needed to let go and grow up. Hannah hated their small village, their quaint church, the traditions their grandparents held. She said she wanted excitement. Maire knew that, to Hannah, she was as dull as everything else she wanted to shake off.

Maire shut her tear-filled eyes and listened to the whispers of the water. The wind was picking up, whipping through the branches with winter on its breath, and a shiver ran through her. The trees’ clipping together sounded almost human, like voices in a harsh and foreign tongue. They covered the grass in shadow, and unease pricked Maire’s skin. There was something threatening in the air’s frost-promising cast. She glanced at the sky, much darker than when she’d left school and covered by grey clouds. It was time to go; but part of her was enthralled by the pools, no longer laughing and sunlit, and the dark fingers of the trees. 

Maire stood, the thought of leaving half-formed in her mind, but as she began to walk she found herself moving toward the rowans. The path retreated behind her, and she stretched out her hand to brush the glassy surface of the pool. The reflected red berries shuddered beneath her touch, ripples spreading outwards.

Here the trees hugged the waterline. From the bank Maire could reach only the outermost few. They bent over the pool like mourners, and Maire imagined their roots snaking beneath its bottom, so that they cradled the whole pool. She pictured them below the soil, spreading like veins, and suddenly the blood-red of the rowan berries was calling to her, as if the roots twisted through her own body and around her heart. All she wanted was to plunge her hands into the earth, follow the roots’ path as her own blood sang. The leaves rustled in her mind, beckoning, and she took one step and then another. Icy water soaked her school shoes and crept around her ankles. She did not feel it. She waded toward the rowans, hand outstretched to touch their boughs.

That was when she saw the boy.

His eyes were shut, his skin deathly pale. His body was upright but he did not stand; he was held there by the trees, like a corpse in a vertical coffin. The branches twined around his shoulders, leaves in his hair, and the rowan berries were blood-bright splashes on his skin.

Maire could not think, could not feel. The urge to touch his icy neck was overwhelming.

The fairy pool lapped at her calves, and, silhouetted against the winter sky, she reached into the clutch of rowan trees.

Don’t touch him!

The shout bounced and shattered through the clearing, and Maire span, stumbled, crashed to her knees with a shriek and a splash. The water knifed her legs and she lurched to her feet, looking wildly around, and felt a hand grasp her arm.

Someone was pulling her away, arm around her shoulders, and they did not stop until the clearing was behind them and the motorway roared in the distance.

Maire retched, bent over double at the edge of the wood.

She was shaking, soaked skirt clinging to soaked legs, and felt a coat draped across her shoulders.

“Follow me.”

She looked up at the boy who had dragged her away.

Stupidly, all she could say was, “You go to my school.”

He frowned. “This is Liscannor. There is only one school.”

“I—” Maire had nothing to say. The cold was stinging, and it was starting to rain, but more than that the blood-red rowans flashed in her vision; them and the boy ensnared by their branches. 

She felt a hand on her back, propelling her along. “My car’s down there,” the boy said. “You need to get warm.”

Maire let herself be led, head spinning, barely seeing the trees as they thinned and turned into tarmac.

Sitting in the kitchen of a strange house she felt the cup of tea’s warmth spread through her hands, and tried to banish the image of the trees stooping over the fairy pool.

The boy had introduced himself as Lucas, and Maire had placed him vaguely as one of a school-uniformed throng in the corridor between classes. Now his sister had come in, and they were both thrown sharply into focus.

Lucas may have faded into the background, but of course Maire recognised Regan O’Bride. She knew them now: twins from the year above, pale-haired and viewed as slightly odd.

Lucas was the kind of boy who won maths prizes and stayed in the computer room every lunchtime, equally afraid of the sun and other people. He was almost skeletally thin. Maire thought he was the sort who might forget to eat. When they’d arrived he’d handed her some of Regan’s clothes, avoiding looking her in the eye, and retreated to put the kettle on.

Regan was totally different and yet utterly the same. She strode around the school in pointy boots that were in no universe regulation, surrounded by a troop of girls with strange hair and moody Tumblr blogs. They were not cool like the Hollister-wearing girls, who rejected them, but they listened to bands you wished you’d heard of, and everyone had a small part that secretly wanted to be one of them.

Or in Maire’s case, not such a small part.

She could not believe she was sitting in Regan O’Bride’s kitchen, wearing her too-long tights and too-small skirt.

She also could not believe that the rowan trees behind the fairy pool were steeped in magic, and amidst their branches a boy slept a sleep like death.

Saturday, 22 August 2015

Beautiful People: The Friendship Edition // VLOG Q&A NOW OPEN

Good day to you my friends. I hope you're in fine fettle.*

* I never know how to start blog posts and end up writing rubbish like that. Feel free to throw me in a lake with my hands tied.

Anyway. First things first. My last post was something of an appreciation post, saying thank you to you wonderful lot for being my 100 followers. I told you that I was thinking of making a Q&A vlog to mark the occasion, and this is going to go ahead!

I've already received a few questions. Please send in more by:

commenting -- remember, you can set it to anonymous if you'd like!

emailing me at emmilobb@gmail.com

~ or tweeting me @Emily__Etc

(Please send questions. If not it'll just be me looking awkwardly at the camera and all things shall be very very tragic.)

A couple of you also expressed interest in some sort of survey ... anyone else up for that? Tell me in the comments!

Finally, a reminder that there will be a giveaway. So stay tuned. 

Anyway. Today I'm linking up with Beautiful People, the monthly writing meme hosted by Paper Fury and Further Up & Further In!

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This month, in honour of International Friendship Day on August 2nd, it's the Friendship Edition.

I will once again be answering questions for my (now complete) untitled first novel.


Corrie is the MC and narrator, but her friends are hugely important in her life.

There are four of them in the group: Corrie Thrace, Selected as a writer; Freddie Talvace, a mage, Selected for his magic; Mel Oswald, working as a waiter in Teyvanidan's poor district; and Jem Sperling, working as a messenger around the city.

1. How long have they known each other, and how close are they?

As friends go they are a pretty new group. Corrie met Freddie because they were both Selected from Mallowwick together, and then on their first day in Teyvanidan they found themselves doing a detention together. She met Mel about a month later, and then Jem about a month after that, and that's when the four of them became a unit.


2. What’s their earliest memory of being best friends?
I understand this question is more geared towards childhood bezzies, but we can roll with it.


So there's this day where Corrie's going to a ball. And she gets ready at Mel's house. But when they're walking back to the palace, a summer storm starts, so Mel -- who vaguely knows Jem -- yanks them into his house as they're passing. Freddie also pitches -- he knows Jem, too, because they've worked together.

Then there's a leak in Jem's roof and Freddie fixes it with magic and they have to clean the house (hence Corrie mentioning "mucking in") and ... yeah. That's the first day. 

3. Do they fight? How long do they typically fight for?
Not a lot. As the excitement in the novel keys up, with revolution and civil war, there is a lot of strain for them, not to mention points at which various members of the group are missing and the others don't know if they're dead or alive. Under these circumstances, they can be forgiven for being a bit snappy. But they could never stay angry for long.
Corrie fights with Jem more than the other two, because their personalities are more similar. Likewise, Freddie and Mel fight more with each other than with Corrie or Jem.

4. Are their personalities similar or do they compliment each other?
Corrie and Jem are similar in that they are quiet, more prone to repressing their feelings than sharing them. Freddie and Mel are louder, more effusive. They compliment each other overall.

This is from the same scene as the one above. Mel is waltzing into Jem's house even though she barely knows him, and Corrie is very embarrassed.

5. Who is the leader of their friendship (if anyone)?
Hmm, good question. I'd say they all adopt leadership roles in different ways. Jem is the most practical, but Corrie also becomes pretty good at making decisions as the book progresses. Freddie and Mel are crucial for morale.

6. Do have any secrets from each other?
Not many. Initially Freddie does, but we worm that one out of him pretty quickly. ~evil author laughter~
Oh, apart from Jem. He's a highly secretive animal. He has a MASSIVE secret -- I'm talking HUGE -- that isn't revealed until the start of Book Two. Oh, Jem. Why can't you learn to trust more?

7. How well do they know each other’s quirks and habits?
Well! You can't be best friends with someone and not know their quirks and habits (maybe that's just my opinion, but I'm sure it's correct).

8. What kind of things do they like to do together?
Oh, normal things. Escaping pyscho queens. Rescuing people in mortal peril. Caring for dying mothers. Just regular friend things.

OK, I jest. There's not a lot to do -- no cinemas, no concerts, no shopping centres ... you know, fantasy -- but they like to walk around the city a lot. And go to the sea (Teyvanidan is a coastal city). They all love the sea.

9. Describe each character’s fashion style (use pictures if you’d like!) How are their styles different/similar?
Ha! Tough one. Because ... fantasy.

[Note: I do not own or claim ownership to any of these images. All were found on Pinterest.]

Corrie

I have no "character picture" for Corrie. I can't. I know that I'll never see her face, because she looks too much like me.


cute shoes! it can either be a little formal or casual. and don't miss the pretty floral dress in the back ground ;)

I shared this picture in my last BP post. So, the time period is loosely 17th century, thus these clothes would not exist, but Corrie is very brogues.

.

hands

Again, not accurate to the time period ... but those block-colour, simple dresses? That's what Corrie wears.

Mel


.

Mel's hair is actually auburn/golden, but for some reason, this beautiful gal reminds me of her. Don't really know why.

Full Length Patchwork Skirt in Blues and Browns | damselinthisdress - Clothing on ArtFire ~ exactly what Mel would wear. Gah but I don't want to change her hair colour again!!

Yes! This is exactly what she'd wear!
Ugh, why don't I own it?



Also very Mel.

Kid shoes, 1795-1805. Charleston Museum
And these babies!

Freddie 

.

Funnily, this is the best character picture I have for Freddie. (I drew this picture -- see it here -- and so for a whole year, I was "drawing Freddie". Which was fun.)


A good one, except his hair is black.

Pyrokinesis - Fox

He's a mage! He can throw fire! Yay!

(None of those showed his style, and I'm sorry.)

Jem

.

This is kinda Jem ... except it's not. He would never do that moody camera stare! And he is definitely not that model-boy handsome! I WON'T ALLOW IT! FIGHT THE SYSTEM! MY CHARACTERS HAVE SPOTS! SPOTS, I TELL YOU!
~runs off screaming to burn some villages~

Oh, and those clothes are clearly modern. So I've again failed to answer the question.


Bonus: Corrie/Jem (they be my OTP)


Days of old colouredby ~charter-magic

Yeah, so it's not Victorian. Depuff the sleeves, lose the curls and the bustle ... and that's pretty good!
(Except Jem's not that feminine-looking. Nor is Corrie, to be honest.)

Corrie and Jem.

I LOVE THIS PICTURE. CORRIE/JEM, I WILL GO DOWN WITH THIS SHIP.


10. How would their lives be different without each other?
Oh, very different. Mel would probably be OK -- she's good at making friends, she'd have found someone else, and she'd be a lot safer, not caught up in war and revolution! But Freddie would be drifting -- I actually don't want to think what he'd have done to himself by now -- Corrie would be miserable, and Jem .... oh, baby Jem. ~hugs Jem forever~ Don't even suggest a life without them! Ssh, Jem, don't listen to the mean question!

So. If you got to the end of that monster, well done! And if you're here via the link-up, welcome! Link me up to your own BP post.

Remember, send in your questions for the Q&A vlog via comments, email or Twitter. Send as many as you like. And tell me: would you be interested in a survey?

Thursday, 20 August 2015

SOME VERY IMPORTANT QUESTIONS // and some appreciation

Hello!

I hope you're well!

Happy Thursday! 

I'm using too many exclamation marks!

I'll tell you why!

I have 100 followers!


I would like to say a massive thank you to you all. Some are old, some are new; some are inactive accounts (but we don't need to talk about that). There are some of you that I feel like I know really well; others I don't know at all. But the fact is, 100 people, at some time or another over the past three years, decided to follow Emily Etc.: my blog, my art, my thoughts. And that makes me so proud, so thankful, and so happy.

There are so many people in the world who dismiss internet friends as "not real", but I've loved being part of this community and I've connected with some absolutely wonderful girls. So thank you, thank you, thank you.

To tell you the truth, it is especially nice to see this today, when I'm trying to decide which unis to apply to. The choice of courses and universities is baffling, and it's so difficult to tell by reading their websites, which all present a glossy interface assuring you that that particular uni is the best. In every single photo the sun is shining and I am bombarded by the knowledge that I won't really know if I've made the right choice until I'm studying. But I guess it's in God's hands.

Now, onto the very important questions.

1. At this bloggy milestone, I'd love to know your thoughts about a few things. I think my post content / general blog vibe has changed a lot over the three years I've been blogging -- this is natural -- and I'm happy with my content. But what would you like to see more of? And if I put together a survey, would you complete it?

2. Of late I've been thinking about making a vlog. I'd actually resolved that I'd make one "for the next award I'm tagged for", but then the One Lovely Blog Award came along .... and there were no questions to answer. Which is what I was wanting. So, I could wait for an award that involves questions .... OR, I could make an "Ask Me" video. If I did that, would you send in questions? (Because it would be really tragic if I suggested it and then you didn't ask me anything.)

The next thing I'd like to say ... in order to share my appreciation, I'm having a giveaway!

^Me right now.


I've not worked out the details yet, but one is coming very soon, book and possibly art-related. 

Watch this space for said upcoming giveaway!

One last thing: now that I have 100 followers (it feels so good to type that!) I'd like to, once more, extend a cry to you silent lot. Please, please, please ... I really want to hear what you have to say! Comment the weirdest thing you like, I will not mind -- I'd just love to know that you're out there. And if you have a blog yourself, I would so love to read it. Maybe it's just because I'm British and awkward but I always feel wrong leaving my url in my comments, as if it's a subtle sign saying "I don't care about your blog, I just want you to visit mine." But I hereby promise that that is NOT how I will view your url. I give you permission to leave it, free from all awkwardness.

There. Come on, silent followers. I'm doing the best I can!

That is all from me. I'm sorry for the lack of any proper book posts lately ... I'm not feeling very motivated, for some reason, or rather, I don't have any inspiration. (Another question, then: are there any book posts you'd like to see, or questions you'd like me to answer? Comment! Comment!) Now it's over to you: answer my very important questions, and if you're a silent follower, now's the time to use your voice. 

Once again, a million thank yous for your support in getting me to this place.

Monday, 17 August 2015

The One Lovely Blog Award // a sort of update + a lot of pictures

Good day.

The very lovely Ely from what can I say? has tagged me for the One Lovely Blog Award!

I used to hate receiving blog awards -- well, not hate, but I had too many and posted them too often. But of late, I've actually been hankering after them -- I think we have, as a blogging community, largely "grown out" of awards, so it's nice to get one now and again. Thank you, Ely!

You should definitely check out her blog, by the way. It is very beautiful.





The Rules

1. Thank whoever nominated you.
2. List rules and display award.
3. Give seven facts.
4. Nominate 15  other bloggers and notify them.
5. Display award logo and follow the blogger who nominated you.

1, 2 and 5 are check check check. Now for number 2 ... I am going to intersperse these with recent Pinterest loves because why the heck not?

1. I really, really, really love car drives. To the extent where I'm disappointed when we reach our destination. For me it is nearly heaven to sit in the back of the car with my iPod in, leaning my head against the window and watching the world -- preferably the night or the hills -- go by.


"The woods are lovely, dark and deep/, but I have promises to keep/ and miles to go before I sleep/ and miles to go before I sleep." Robert Frost
[source]


Guy Denning
[source]

2. I have recently discovered my love for what is called "wild swimming". Be it a lake, a loch or the sea, I want to swim in it ... whatever the weather.

3. Christianity -- Christ -- is the most important thing in my life. Every day I'm more and more amazed that Jesus truly died for me, rose again and is even now waiting to return as the world's Judge and take his own to him. And I think that has massive implications for every person on this planet.


4. My most recent musical loves are Passenger, Sufjan Stevens, The Strokes and Maximo Park. 



Babeth Lafon
[source]

#boho
[source]
there was a storm fast approaching, but she remained in the field of poppies, waiting for news
[source]
5. It often floors me how incredibly beautiful our world is. I'm on holiday on the Isle of Skye at the moment and it is stunning.


Fjords of Scandinavia
[source]
Fjords of Scandinavia.
Carmel, California / photo by Matt Edge
[source]
Carmel, California

Pablo Neruda
[Pablo Neruda]

6. I have dreadlock ambitions. When I leave home, I intend to make good my freedom and dread like there's no tomorrow.

I also want to get a tattoo, but I am as yet unsure what and where.

.
[source]

This be what I'm going to look like.
[source]

I mean, no, I'd never get a sleeve -- it'd be too much -- but I love them.
floral by Esther Garcia
[source]
Eschew
[source]

7. I am never ever ever going to stop to writing because I would have no idea how. There are a thousand worlds inside my head bursting to be released and if I don't take them from their half-formed ghostly state and breathe life into them and pour them out as ink, I will go mad.


//
[source]

[source]

..*
[source]


The alphabetical Nominees

Lauren @ Always Me
Marian @ Ivory Clouds

(That is twelve, not fifteen, but who's counting?)

And that is that.

Thanks one last time to Ely! Now tell me: how do you feel about these very visual, sort-of-life-update posts? Would you like more of them? Tell me all. And give me one fact about yourself, that I definitely won't know already.

Emily x

Thursday, 13 August 2015

SWC #6: Progress

Ashley @ [insert title here] is continuing to run her (fabulous) Summer Writing Camp. There is still time to link up with Round 6!

dialogue prompt



Progress

“Remember the day we left?”

“Don’t.”

“Remember, Sylv? We had lunch outside—”

“I remember.” She stared into her lap, not wanting to meet her husband’s gaze. She knew what she would see there – a half-pleading, half-provoking look, brittle and quavering. The whites of his eyes were too bright, like hers. It was the pressure change, they said. To shoot through space at this speed, it took its toll on the human body. And the mind.

“Our last proper lunch,” Nick was saying. “Do you remember? The bread and butter, and we had that soup, that soup your mum brought round—”

“Shh,” Sylvia said. “Don’t think about it. Besides, darling, the food will be better when we get there.” She looked at the silver packets of freeze-dried mush stacked on the shelf and hoped she wasn’t lying. 

“And the fruit,” Nick said. “Peaches, we had—”

“Darling—”

“And the last pears—”

“Nick—”

“They were from the orchard. Bill’s orchard. Remember how it used to smell there, Sylv, when it was hot and the smell of the apples was like cider, and the plums would all be ripening, and we’d lie in the grass, sometimes, and just listen to the insects …”

“I remember.”

“There’ll be no grass there,” Nick said quietly. 

Sylvia said nothing.

“Desert planet,” he whispered.

“It’s very beautiful,” Sylvia said. “In the photos, I mean – all that red sand, and those lovely deep lakes, and the huge sun—”

“Remember our honeymoon, Sylv?”

“Of course I do.” Her voice was strangled. At last she looked into his face. 

“That blue lake.” Nick was looking at her yet not seeing; he looked beyond her, into the past. “And the mountains. With those goats, remember, those wild goats and the trees … We never wore shoes, remember? We didn’t have to. And I picked you different kinds of flowers every day.”

“You did,” Sylvia whispered.

“And when we came back we had our first house – our first house in the city – and I used to wake up and see you looking out the window – and the sun would be out, and the buildings picked out all in gold, and the river, and the sound of the people … And the streets so full in the mornings, and the shops and the performers and all the smells from the cafes and the seagulls on the wharf—”

“Nick, please, darling!” Sylvia turned away, choked.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was quivering. She could not look at him. She knew she’d shatter.

Every day Sylvia thought of the shifting mass of the city, the myriad of people in the great tide that rolled back and forth. She’d loved to watch them, imagine their stories. It blew her away, the thought that they all moved beneath the same sky, and yet their lives and their hearts and their dreams were so different. Most of them she’d never see twice. They were anonymous, and so was she, caught in the beautiful, inexhaustible spiral of life. Sometimes she’d listened to the rain at night, feeling it cleanse the city streets before the throng rushed out again the next morning. There would be no rain on the desert planet.

They had been happy, then. Nick worked for the Government, a rising name in his field, and they had their friends and their books and their music and the world. It was becoming a better place, they were told. Science was ever advancing. The leaps forward were remarkable. Some spoke of growing wings to leave this small blue planet and create life in galaxies far away. Sylvia rejoiced in progression. Everything was getting better. Science was religion. The world thrived.

The new planet was discovered.

The excitement washed over Sylvia like laughter. It filled the news and the online world. The new planet had oxygen, water; it could sustain life. Politicians marvelled. The Government laid out plans for habitation. Sylvia lived with joy through those enthralling days. She and Nick were going to have a baby. The promise of the world thrilled inside her.

Then they were selected.

It was a reward, the officials said. Nick was doing so well; on the new planet his position would be prominent. Their child would grow there in the red sand, a part of the greatest experiment humanity had ever performed. There had never been, they said, a more exciting time to be alive.

Now Sylvia sat with her hands on her growing stomach, trying not to cry.

In the small, sparse room the lights were fluorescent, making Nick’s skin look unearthly pale. A bed, a sink, the white door to a tiny bathroom. There was a bookcase, too, but Sylvia had stopped reading. A book comes to life as its pages are turned, but only when the life inside is recognisable. For Sylvia, to read about the world she’d left was to cast a painful shadow. Her husband continued to devour the paperbacks, though, lying on his stomach on the bed, his hands like claws as he tried to rip from the pages the life they’d once known.

There were speakers, too, but nothing sounded right in the sharp white room. That did not stop Nick from playing old music. Sylvia would sit there, violins unreal in her ears, and watch the blackness roll by outside their window. The night was eternal. The stars were not the same, either; where they had once blazed they now seemed cold, like sleepless sentinels, the cruel guards of a silent void.

“Remember dancing?” Nick whispered. He stumbled to his feet, pulling Sylvia by the hand, but they did not, could not, dance. She stood motionless, staring at the stars over his shoulder, and felt his body shake. Nick wept. Sylvia could not look into the face of the men she had once loved. She only held him as he crumbled, driven mad in the name of progress. 

Monday, 10 August 2015

Art Tuesday: Fairytale

Don't tell me it's not Tuesday. It is in some dimension. Tuesday is a state of mind.

Today I am sharing some art.

Some of this is nearly a year old, but I did not post it before because it was for school -- it was sent to the exam board as my Higher Art Foilo. And I don't know, but I have this (100% irrational) fear that if I post pictures online before the folio is marked, maybe they'll FIND THEM and never be convinced it's really me running this blog and ACCUSE ME OF PLAGIARISM.

I mean, obviously they won't. But I preferred to wait until my results were safely in.


My theme started off as fairytales, which morphed into people-with-leaves-on-their-faces. I am quite interested in the idea of trees taking people over. I intend to write a novel on this theme one day.

Clockwise from top left: chalk pastel; graphite pencil; the coloured pencil one we don't talk about because she looks like a transvestite David Bowie; other coloured pencil; graphite pencil.

Clockwise: chalk pastel lady; the slightly frightening, slightly deformed coloured pencil/ink mixed media woman; oil pastel piece.


Only with this piece did I discover chalk pastel, which previously I'd not used since the age of eleven. Now I absolutely love it. It's like coloured pencil but faster because you can just use your finger to blend and draw!
And this was my final piece, done in coloured pencil. He took a looong time, but I really enjoyed doing it.
I know you're (probably) a book blogger, but do you do art? Or anything else, for that matter -- what is/are your hobbie(s)? I would really love to know, because it is nice to learn more about the person behind the screen!

PS I'm sorry about the appalling quality of these photos. They were taken on my phone. 

PPS Do you want more of these sorts of posts? Do you like me sharing my art? Or not so much? Would you prefer a solely book blog? Do tell.