Thursday, 20 September 2018


I’m looking for Fymm now that the early frosts are nipping my fingers and toes, like a bite from his small sharp teeth. It’s nearly a year since I last saw him, and I’m scared and excited too. It won’t be long before Thin Time is here again. I think I’d better say who I am before I tell you what happened the last time I met Fymm. I’m Alice Griffin, and I’m telling you my name first because that’s what got me into trouble, and it’s the worst trouble that ever happened to me. Well the worst so far and I’m lucky to be alive. If I’d gone straight home from school it wouldn’t have happened, but after my mum died, and my dad married again, home wasn’t the same any more. Now I had a stepmother and a five-year-old stepbrother, and he followed me around all day and wouldn’t leave me alone. Then my stepmother started shouting at me for nothing. Whatever I did made her cross. So I did things to annoy her, and that got me into loads more trouble, and just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did, a lot worse! It was after school at Halloween that the weird things began to happen. Thin Time - A story by Carole Anne Carr Author is set in Tong Church, nr. Shifnal. A book for 8 to 11 yr. olds. 


Some of the characters in the story can be found in the church. At the request of the girls I meet at book signings, the story has a girl hero!

Sunday, 12 August 2018

It is no good pretending, I have a book to edit, a book to write, and Sunday lunch to prepare. Speaking of Sunday and food always reminds me of the lady who said to me in a kindly fashion, after I had given the weekly sermon, ‘When you preach we can’t think about the Sunday roast, you pin our ears to the wall.’ Always makes me smile 🤗

Wednesday, 4 July 2018

I.W.S.G. July!

The July 4th IWSG Question is “What are your ultimate writing goals, and how have they changed over time (if at all)?

A very interesting question and I’m looking forward to reading other writers’ answers.

Being late in life, my goal is to achieve my MA, the course ends in October, complete my first book for adults, and send to a publisher. I know that to achieve publication, it is not necessary to have a masters degree, however it increases the chances of success. We'll see 😊. 

Wednesday, 2 May 2018

I.W.S.G. And It's May!

Another question from Alex's support group, and I wonder how many people reply in a positive or negative fashion to this query.  Maybe the answer lies in where you live. Being in a cold country, that sees every six months as cold and grey, Spring is such a relief that the last thing I want to do is stay indoors and sit at the computer.  Perhaps I could go out with a notebook, but I'm struggling through a degree in literature, so it's the computer for me!
 QUESTION: It's spring! Does this season inspire you to write more than others, or not?  

Monday, 30 April 2018


Giving a talk about my children's books to one group on Wednesday, and then reading my poetry to another group Saturday. I haven't done this for some time, or undertaken book signings, so looking forward to sharing my work with readers.
#amwriting #poetry

Wednesday, 4 April 2018

April and IWSG question!
When your writing life is a bit cloudy or filled with rain, what do you do to dig down and keep on writing? 
(I love these questions, makes it much more fun)

Having taken on another writing course, a degree course in Creative Writing, and having paid for it, the urge to achieve, and not to waste the money, becomes sufficient motivation! 👹👹👹 though I must admit to wilting a little from time to time...

Monday, 12 March 2018

River Dark - Chapter One

RIVER DARK - an Ironbridge Gorge Adventure Chapter One

A Terrible Enemy

 If I'd known I'd be hunted down like a criminal, I would have turned away from Atterley Hall when I heard that horrible screaming. But this was the first day of my new life, and I wasn't giving up now. As the wintery sunlight broke through the early morning mist over the parkland, I took a deep breath, charged through the archway into the stable yard, and had to jump back from a huge black stallion, rearing up and thrashing the air with his polished hooves. He shrieked with anger, trying to shake off a small, grizzled haired man who clung to the leading rein. The groom, despite his broad shoulders and shovel fists, was no match for the angry, enormous beast. His riding boots slid on the damp cobbles as angry horse reared, plunged, and drummed his hooves in a wild, furious dance. Frantic to control the stallion, the groom punched the animal's neck with his fist, making the powerful creature wilder than ever. With a violent twist of his spine the horse flung the man into the air, and I watched in horror as he landed on the cobbles with a sickening thump. Then the thoroughbred reared again, ready to bring his weight crashing down on his tormentor, and I yelled, 'Thunder, don't!'

 At the sound of my voice, the stallion seemed frozen in time with his head thrust back, his mane rippling with a life of its own. His heavy body hung motionless, balanced on his hind legs, the muscles in his haunches straining under the shining skin. Afraid he would topple and break his back I foolishly flung out my arms to save him. But with a tremendous effort, he heaved his weight forward; his hooves clattered the yard, and the groom scuttled to safety. Now the stallion swung his head in my direction, trotted towards me, and it took every bit of courage to stand my ground. For a terrified moment I thought I'd be trampled, but he came to a skittering halt, his huge chest towering above me, and in the sharp morning air, I was close enough to feel the heat of his silky body. His damp breath formed clouds around his whiskered muzzle, wetting my skin like fine rain; he dipped his head and playfully nipped me on the shoulder. He had not forgotten me. With joyful relief, I reached up to pat his powerful neck and out of the corner of my eye noticed the groom striding towards me, a furious, twisted expression on his face. Without a word, he snatched up Thunder's dangling lead rope, grabbed me, and almost jerked me off my feet. Held in his fierce grip, his tweed jacket reeking of sour sweat, and his red, weather-roughened face thrust close to mine, his anger shocked me, if I hadn't shouted when I did Thunder might have killed him.... to be continued...

Saturday, 10 March 2018

River Dark

I shall be posting excerpts from my latest book,  River Dark, sequel to the Ironbridge Gorge adventure Candle Dark on Mondays, here, on my website and Facebook.

Wednesday, 7 March 2018

March already and IWSG time!


Having spent the last month reviewing Angela Carter's books and articles for a thesis, and with International Women's Day happening with marches for female equality taking place in many countries, I hope everyone will be thinking what they can do to support the event, now and in the future. There are signs that women are becoming aware that the battle for equality in every walk of life did not achieve the needed result when the Suffragettes won the vote. It was only a very minor step. Pleasing to see that Carter's novels are being reprinted in the Suffragettes' anniversary year and that the books are now available on Audible! #internationalwomensday 

Monday, 26 February 2018

Favourite Genre and Favourite Author?

I have had to read the author Angela Carter and I find her work brilliant, even though I am not a fan of her genre. But as she wrote many genres, there is something for everyone. What author and genre do you prefer?

Wednesday, 14 February 2018

Folktales for the O.U.

Having fun with this, might even finish this folktale 🙀

Block 3: Chapter 8: Metafiction and Intertextuality
Use a text that has influenced your writing, (I’ve chosen Angela Carter, her gothic Fairy Stories), and produce an intertextual piece of 500–750 words using any of the techniques highlighted in this chapter.  (Anagram, allusion, adaptation, parody, translation, pastiche, imitation…)
The Little Old Man and the House on Heron’s Legs
In a deep, dark wood, where little light squeezed through the blackish canopy, there was a cottage with a thatch so threadbare that even the mice and rats had given up in despair and gone in search of a new home. 
The only inhabitants of this decaying cottage were an old man and his two, grown-up children, Handel and Grubelene. Unfortunately, the children were both very lazy. They did little to help their old father, who had spent a life time digging in the dry, sandy soil, taking care not to chop any earthworms in half, and struggling to grow food for his family. But there was never enough cabbage to feed them, and his wife, seeing how the cabbages were scare, had starved herself and died a slow and painful death. 
Yet, despite the hardship, the old man was of a hopeful nature, and many an evening, as he dug in the poor soil, he would sing a cheerful ditty to his friends the blackbirds and robins, who accompanied him with their happy chirruping. And he always gave them the tastiest scraps of his cabbage meal, rather than keep the last of the food for himself.   
Then one day, when there was only one cabbage left in the larder, and so few left in the sandy soil that even the worms went hungry, Handel said to his younger sister, Grubelene, ‘Our father is old. He can no longer to look after us. There is not enough food left. Let us take father to the middle of the wood and leave him there to die. Then you and I shall not go hungry.’
Now Grubelene was somewhat fond of the old man, and at first did not agree, but feeling her stomach rumbling, eventually told her brother that it was the only solution. So the children gave the old man a couple of cabbage leaves for the journey, told him they were going to pick blackberries, although it was well into December, and set off with him to the middle of the wood. 
On the way, the birds flew around the old man’s head, twittering into his ear and telling him that his children meant to take him far from the cottage and leave him there to die. But the old man shook his head at them, for he knew his children loved him. Then the earthworms slithered out of the ground and roared at him to stop, telling him that if he returned home to his sandy soil they would try to eat less of his cabbages. But the old man was deaf and their whispery voices just tickled his ears and made him laugh. 
When they had walked a very long way, the old man said, ‘I must rest, I am so tired. Handel and Grubelene, you must go on, pick the blackberries and bring some for me to eat.’ 
‘Of course,’ said Handel, ‘you stay here and rest. Eat some of your cabbage leaves and we will bring you delicious blackberries. And when we return home, I shall help you to dig in the dry, sandy soil.’
The old man was so grateful to hear this offer of help after so many years - Handel having reached his thirtieth birthday this very week - that a tear ran down the old man’s wrinkled face. He patted his son’s hand, and settled patiently on a rock with a broad smile on his face. 
The old man waited and waited. He munched his cabbage leaves, and still his children did not return. ‘Oh, dear,’ said the old man to himself, ‘I am so worried. My children must have lost their way in the deep, dark forest, what am I to do? How can I help them?’  
Then he heard a music, a sweet, trilling sound. A robin alighted on the old man’s shoulder and said, ‘Do not despair. You have been kind to us, and so I shall help you.’ 
He flew off, and it wasn’t long before the bird returned with a soft, dappled deer, who lowered his head and snuffed gently at the old man’s face. The beautiful creature seemed to be telling the old man to come with him, and so the old man stumbled to his feet, followed the deer, and eventually they came to a clearing in the forest. 
Here, the old man was very startled, for in the middle of the clearing was the strangest sight...


I’m looking for Fymm now that the early frosts are nipping my fingers and toes, like a bite from his small sharp teeth. It’s nearly a year s...