Writer's Notes - Index
April 2018 KATE GORDON. Away From It All
March 2018 MYRA DUFFY: A Writer’s Journey
KATE GORDON. Away From It All April 2018
I have just spent a few days in the lovely Trossachs with no internet or mobile phone. I am sure my fellow writers will be thinking that I will return with some wonderful pieces inspired by the tranquillity and beauty of my surroundings. They’ll be wrong.
I did go with an empty notebook which remained unopened, and some pens which were used only to fill in the Herald crossword. It is amazing how much time you can pass just observing the world around you.
Some wee sparrows were building a nest in the guttering on my balcony and I whiled away a good few hours watching them fly in and out with their little beaks filled with straw and bits of garden debris.
A herd of wild goats foraging among the bushes had me reaching for the camera. I failed to get a decent picture but did get a close up of their ferocious looking horns as the beasts came up and peered in the window at me.
Another thing I watched was some rubbishy daytime television. I told myself that this is allowed when you are on holiday. So, not a lot of writing was done. However, before I left home, a short spell of unwellness prompted me to write this.
There’s nae sich thing
if ye’re a wumman.
Everythin is yours,
fae the totties tae the dug.
A the dishes
an the mugs,
the hoover an
the waashin machine.
You’re the queen o
a ye survey, inside an oot.
There is nae nae doot
who belangs tae the gairden
an a it entails.
Even the snails
If ye ever hiv the flu
an the ither hauf
has tae dae the chores,
ye’ll get an hourly bulletin,
tae make sure it’s sinkin in,
Ah’ve wiped yer flair,
hoovered yer stair,
watched yer weans,
cleaned yer drains,
cut yer hedges,
weeded yer edges,
fed yer cat,
ah’ve done a that
Happy Easter to all at Erskine Writers.
MYRA DUFFY: A Writer’s Journey March 2018
I joined Erskine Writers in 2007 and quickly found how supportive everyone in the group was to a ‘new’ writer. Although I wrote when I was a child and had had a lot of non-fiction published over the years, I was coming back to fiction after a long absence and the help I received gave me the confidence to proceed.
If you can’t manage to come along to the meetings, held on a Tuesday afternoon at the Bargarran Community Centre, you can become a postal member and access information through the website.
You will have the opportunity to try all kinds of writing from short stories to poetry to flash fiction.
Although I now write novels, (mostly cosy crime set on the Isle of Bute) I continue to write poetry and short stories. I’ve uploaded one of my flash fiction stories below.
For more information visit my website www,myraduffywriter.com or find me on Facebook and Twitter @duffy_myra
MYRA DUFFY THE ISLE OF BUTE MYSTERY SERIES
I don’t want to think about that holiday, how it ended. We’d set off in high spirits, so in love.
‘A little villa by the sea,’ he said. ‘Just the two of us. We can chill out, enjoy the sunshine, away from the hustle and bustle.’
There was only a moment’s hesitation. He must have known I’d been in love with him for years, would have done anything for him.
‘What about your wife?’ I said.
‘She thinks I’m going on a golfing holiday with the lads,’ he grinned.
How could I refuse? It wasn’t only because he was my boss that I’d fallen in love with him, though it was hard not to love him. The gifts of expensive clothes, the jewellery hand-made to order: he was a man who always got what he wanted.
The weekend was all he promised. We swam in the turquoise blue sea, ate at little secluded restaurants, made love under the stars. He said he and his wife didn’t get on, but he couldn’t leave her. She was the one with all the money.
On the flight home, he was distant. ‘Perhaps we should cool things for a while,’ he said.
We collected our bags in silence, as though we meant nothing to each other.
At the newspaper kiosk, the headlines screamed, ‘Wife of well-known businessman murdered.’
He gave me no sign, just put me in a taxi and turned to leave without a word.
It was then I realised. I wasn’t his lover. I was his alibi.