Editing and killing your darlings

This week, I begin on a rewrite of my fourth book, The Revelations of Celia Masters. This is historical fiction, set in mid 17th-century Somerset, then the Chesapeake area of Virginia, then Somerset again. It’s gothic in feel and has woven in the literature and characters of the period. So you’ll meet the poets of the first Caroline Court, see Ben Jonson and get acquainted with the head of Sir Walter Raleigh and the man who brought the first pineapple to the English court. This is a book which has had a lot of interest from various quarters and…needs to be redone in the light of feedback.

Here is a synopsis (longer version; if you’re submitting, make ’em shorter and offer the whole plot) to give you a flavour.

Oooh – go and read the wonderful book, illustated below. It’s Albion’s Seed and was my greatest stimulus for my novel, together with my reading of Southern gothic – and thinking about its origins – that I am Somerset born and travelled and also in love with the South, and married to Georgia Boy. Oh, and my love for and interest in the Cavalier poets. A few more things, but I shall write on this at a later date.

albion

Young Celia Masters was born in 1625, the year that King James I died. She is an orphan, raised by a guardian, the rich and connected Frances Masters, and remembers nothing of her parents, though she thinks she sees them in troubling dreams at night. Celia visits the Caroline court and goes on to be the inspiration for the Celia poems of Ben Jonson; Richard Lovelace writes about her as both Amarantha and Althea; she is dandled on the knee of Henrietta Maria and adored by King Charles, too. It is a gracious life and yet, Celia is unsettled and questioning, and at night returns to her troubling dreams. Of her mother, a beautiful shadowy figure; of half whispered truths. Sometimes, the fear and longing in these dreams seeps into the day world and Celia is ill at ease and runs wild late at night in the Somerset valleys which are her home, but by day she remains composed. Her maids tend her, but she sometimes hears them whisper at her door, ‘I know you what you are.’ By this she is both chilled and thrilled. Once, given a poppet by the Cavalier poets, she drives a pin into it thinking of a pompous man chiding her for impudence – and tastes wickedness: it is delicious.

Beyond Celia, the Cavalier world is crumbling and when the Civil War comes, the Cavaliers fight, or they spend their money in the cause of the king and many fly for the new land of America and try to establish themselves in the new colony there. She knows some things of the New World of America, of ‘New Britain’, as some call it. There is much here that troubles her. Is here not enough? Home is established in the Chesapeake; she is courted and feted for her beauty, this New World celebrated, and yet the arrogance of those who preside unsettles her. News reaches them of Cromwell, of war and of Charles beheaded at Whitehall, Henrietta Maria fled. Her dreams are darker, more pervasive as she lives this new life in Virginia. Celia marries, lives on a successful plantation and is the mother of three sons and a girl, loving but restless, and not appreciated by her unimaginative husband; eventually, she takes to wandering, the shifting landscape of the tidewater with the night-time dreams seeping into her day. She is restless when she sees the slaves whipped or the Algonquins insulted; when she sees the brutality of the white man and the woman. At night she creeps to the houses of the workers, shares their meals. They come to trust her and she tells of her dreams and aching heart. Rise up, say their voices; rise up say the voices of her night-time. Her dreams of a unremembered but keenly felt past permeate her waking hours and, knife to throat, Masters is forced to tell her who she really is. She is Celia Lee, child of the last witch killed under James I. Celia grows increasingly wild. Her husband tries to keep her at home and is cruel to her, insisting that she stay on the plantation and that she shames him. She wanders, receives stories, legends, from the occasional lone traveller in these parts; hears whispers. What of the lost colony of Roanoke? Young Virginia Dare? What happened to her? And then, one night, she is gone with her sons and daughter to the remote wooded areas of the frontier, Virginia. Around her, she establishes a faith, an awakening, a cult. She builds a church of sorts. With this awakening, she speaks tongues and makes magic, has powerful spells, begins to understood what she really is and who her powerful mother was – a woman King James had long wanted killed. As the old world in England crumbles, she builds, her devoted children by her side, witchery aflame: the Somerset maids who whispered ‘I know you what you are’ help her too, the Algonquin girls and the slave girls from Barbados and, astonishingly, Virginia Dare, still alive, an old woman now, kept safe in the Indian villages, seeks her out: together they establish something extraordinary. And after long life, she dies there, with her sons, leaving her daughter, Bess, to return to Somerset and begin her work there. Establish a new church of spells and sorcery. And it is the descendants of Celia – and of Bess – who keep her flame and begin the story.

I am, among other things, extending some sections of the book, reconsidering the way in which I have used dialect and dialect words – all of which has been very carefully checked insofar as it is possible to do this with mid-17th-century conversation – and I am killing some darlings. I personally love little set pieces at the beginning of books. The other night I couldn’t sleep, so I was re-reading Hilary Mantel’s Bring up the Bodies and noting that I enjoyed her notes at the beginning: Charles Brandon:  a peer of limited intellect; Thomas Wyatt: (about whom I want to write, by the way) a courtier of unlimited intellect.

BUT

I’ve cut the following and offer, now, a more straightforward dive into the text. Here’s what you used to have…

 

Bruton, Somerset, England with reference to other English counties and people of the time.

The court of King Charles I (1600-1649) and Henrietta Maria (known also as Mary), palace of Whitehall and various, London. And with reference to the court of King James I and VI (1566-1625), his father.

Elizabeth Town, new Williamsburg, James City County, Virginia, during the emigration from the South of England and with other reference to the Chesapeake Bay. Tidewater and the James River.

Celia Masters, a young woman of Bruton, well heeled and cultured.

Francis Masters, her guardian, of Primrose House, Bruton, a landowner and man of great kindness

Celia’s maids, Agnes and Isabella.

William Berkeley, of Bruton Somerset, and governor of Virginia, 1641-1652 and 1660-1677 and with reference to other known families and characters of the time.

Cavalier poets and playwrights of the seventeenth century: Ben Jonson, Richard Lovelace, John Suckling, Robert Herrick and with reference to Edmund Waller, Thomas Carew and John Donne.

Trepanned (kidnapped or coerced) girls for employment as indentured servants in the colony, Grace, Mercy, Mary and Joan.

Slave girls, referred to by employers as ‘hands’, ‘people’ or ‘workers’, Daphne and Betty.

Algonquian Indian girls, Chepi and Numees.

And with reference to Pocahontas, born Matoaka, known as Amonute, later named as Rebecca Rolfe on her marriage to colonist John Rolfe; to her father Wahunsenacawh, the paramount chief of Tsenacommacah, an alliance of Algonquian-speaking Virginia Indians in the Tidewater region of Virginia at the time English settlers landed at Jamestown in 1607. And with reference to Virginia Dare, first white child to be born in the New World at Roanoke Island, where was sited the colony established by Sir Walter Raleigh; this disappeared and became known as the lost colony of Roanoke and the whereabouts of its inhabitants remains a mystery.

 

And here – do please comment – is the first chapter (with a short preface which I have not included here and may also cut).

There is a house, in a green forest clearing. At the fringes and in a new land. In a New World. Above the tidewater and amongst the fringing trees. There is a house, where there is no door and where ivy claims the gate. There is a house, with a garden whose ancient borders breathe out the last of the blown roses which are used, by now, to half-light and darkness. Still they bloom. A house, whose outbuildings tumble around the books and pitchers and tables with fat drawers. A house, with crumbling masonry and chimney stack akimbo. This house. The outside slides and falls. It’s bewildered by moss and ivy. You should not enter this place. Don’t even be fixing to enter. In the New World, in Virginia, beyond the bay and glancing at deep river.

But if you did – and, as I said, there is no door – you would, you should, draw a sharp breath.

Inside, the walls are slip-shiny and the beds made.

There is no dust and the rugs have been shaken out and made flat.

There is an altar with crescent moons, turned this way and that,

With burnished turkey feathers and jewels of marsh periwinkle:

All polished to a shine.

Such excellent housekeeping. No creatures here.

But you should not enter this house, this house in the forest.

And I am someone who should know.

My house. My church. A temple. See the shapes on the walls? Handsome, aren’t they? Crescents turned this way and that to my own purpose and for you. And other shapes too, as we shall see. A book for everyone and a stretch of white linen replenishing itself.

Find me outside and sing me a sea shanty; we’re away from the coast but I miss the tidewater dreadfully. And I miss the rush of my Somerset coast. Find me near those struggling roses, I told you about. There. Look carefully and you will see the stones. Carved stone; carmine when the light catches. There are five and I am under one of them. There are three for the beautiful boys but a monument only for the lovely girl because she lies not here. There: one for me. For friends and witch-lovers, too. For a disappeared child of whom you will have heard, grown old but safe. But none for him. Because those are pearls that were his eyes and I am no-one’s prim unveiled statue in a gallery. I will never be a lady of honour. I am no-one’s prim unveiled statue in a gallery. I will never be a lady of honour. But you could come to see him, if you like; he is buried upright, in the silt. Dig down in the malarial tidewater.

There is another house, too, a sea away. Once that was my home, too, in a broad swathe  of pretty Somerset, England. Once, I was Celia, only Celia, in our county’s days of gentry, I danced with a Cavalier. And have you heard of Celia in the poems of the time? Mr Ben Jonson said they were all for me. Mr Lovelace said I was his Althea, his Amarantha, sweet and fair; Mr Herrick dandled me at court and brought me perfumes as I grew older; said I was his Corinna, sweet as Flora.

Yes, gone. As am I. Once I was Celia, then came the wide sea, the tidewater and the forest. I am not the person I was, though I am not saying I shall not still visit.

Do not come into my house.

And I say do not but I only tempt. If you were not strong enough, it would eat you up. If it loved you, as I would, a paradise; a spell within these walls. Draw closer because it did not begin here, by tulip trees and persimmons. But instead in a green sward, a hollow, in Somerset in the old country.

Draw closer. I may kill, like the screaming monkey in Queen Mary’s gilded cage would do, but I shall not bite.

 

 

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Depending on dinner

Here is something I wrote for submission to a journal, and which was not subsequently accepted. It’s about horror; in the everyday: at mealtimes, in fact. If you’ve read my first book, Killing Hapless Ally, you will have seen that I was sometimes terrified by food as a child. Because of the spirit in which it was cooked and the hands which served it. Sometimes that food was plain terrifying – as in my paternal grandmother’s pickles in the pantry. She disliked most people, had very big hands and once burned all my father’s books; parents think kids don’t notice or overhear, but they do: I was scared of the big hands and the eyeball pickled eggs because I knew those hands were book burning tools. At home, the most beautiful cakes; but the hands that made them were brutal as well as pretty.

Don’t think I’m frightened of food. I’m not. I cook a great deal and for lots of people; I might eat out. But then sometimes up comes a thought – eros, thanatos, trifle, we’ll call it. And yes, it’s scary.

Have a look at this strange little piece and tell me what you think about its content.

cherry

Depending on Dinner

‘What an awful thing life is, isn’t it? It’s like soup with lots of hairs floating on the surface. You have to eat it nonetheless.’

Gustave Flaubert

Boy-child went out for dinner with Mother; a bonding exercise. Childhoods don’t come around every day, though gluttony does and he thought of that like a disease; like something his family couldn’t help. Shovelling it in; nibbling and tasting. He remembered his parents holding mangoes up to the light, comparing the (what was it?) Dussehri mango with the Sindhri. Are they ripe, just so. Oh darling, let me cut you off a sliver.

Ugh. She fed it to him, that amber worm.

Oh. Perfect.

The boy had been repelled as he heard them snaffling and laughing like reptiles in the undergrowth for bugs. Or city foxes tearing at the bins and triumphant over a carcass.

Imperfect. Disgusting.

Now he read to her. Flaubert. Darling, listen. Large platters of cream, that trembled at the slightest jarring of the table. Oh yes, oh yes. Do you remember our wedding feast, my own Madame Bovary. He heard them making that reptile or city fox noise again, though it sounded this time as though they were on the floor.

So.

His parents were disgusting. They were good people. But they were disgusting. So were his grandparents. All gluttons, Shovelling it in. Salivating and all gross in their delight.

Now here he was, out with Mother on a gustatory bonding exercise. It was said to be a cosy little place. Novel, Thai Tapas they called it. Which meant small portions of Thai food. Novel. But  the boy was not excited to go in. He was scared, too. He’d not tried Thai food and thought tapas sounded Spanish and, he recalled now, all his experience of Spanish food was an omelette heavy with vegetables and a slice of manchego cheese that his turophile grandmother had made him try with olives. Now, the hybrid seemed mysterious, if not just a touch menacing. Menacing began to overtake mysterious and the boy quaked.

But still, brave boy, a glimmer of courage in there, too. Thank you Mother.

But what could there be to lose? Memories, now vaunting, were uncomfortable.

            At Grandmother’s house, as the affineur had swept forward bearing an old wooden board with little bits on it, he’d worried. That was because Grandmother expected him to try and he didn’t always want to; he didn’t want to disappoint her. The olives he’d liked; the cheese tasted of saddle and the hair of beasts in heat. He shuddered at this memory. Now how, he wondered, have they combined such things with Thai food? Thai food, Mother had explained, was sweet and sour and you couldn’t taste the anchovies in the fish sauce, but you did get whacked by a deep savoury flavour. And there was a smack of chillies. It was a flavour which could quickly become addictive. On, she went, as mothers do, about the aniseed taste of Thai basil and the lovely lemony smack you got too. And the boy’s anxiety began, surely and slowly, to increase. With it, a sense that he was becoming a man, or something, big and old too soon. His childhood slipping from him with smacks of rude taste.

Hot beasts in heat.

Crumbly white cheese.

Some sort of omelette.

Things lemony that whacked you and things that could be addictive

Aniseed. Wasn’t that like liquorice?

Another horrid memory. He felt ill, poor boy, but who to tell? His father had been cooking steak, waiting on his mother. He had a book open and read as he fried. The boy could smell the tang of black peppercorns and he knew the blood would be seeping soon onto the plates. Darling. Barthes on steak. Do you remember Mythologies from university? Rare steak is said to be saignant (when it calls the arterial flow from the animal’s throat. Oh yes, I remember. You read it over a steak dinner then. Steak tartare. My first time. I was a tartare virgin and you’d showed me the way. Oh. The clash of the pan had subsided. Yes my love. The germinating states of matter…a magic spell he says. The blood mash and the glair of eggs.

They were on the floor again. Thrashing. Beasts in heat.

He tried to think of bland foods. A boiled egg, Porridge and a banana. Plain toast.

Thai Tapas. The boy was trembling, but he was compelled to plod on.

Mash. Glair. Sweet. Sour. A sauce made of old fish but they’d disguised the fish because you could always taste fish and surely that was not trustworthy? It was a deception. What else was in there that added flavour, but which you couldn’t clearly identify? His other (slightly kinder) grandmother spoke sometimes about her love of offal, which disgusted him. Wobbly things; glands; greasy things. Hearts with the ends of tubes still visible; things you weed through. Stuff that boiled and fried and fugged up your kitchen with animal stench. Was it all chopped up, or milked and puréed and added to the Thai Tapas? Tripe like a wet blanket you could do nothing but die screaming in.

They tried squid.

Little prawn toasts.

Wriggling, once alive things.

I feel ill. There is something seriously wrong with me and no-one will come.

Things like ammonites. No more fossil collecting. Now that is disgusting too.

This restaurant. Very expensive for tiny things no bigger than the smallest paper bag of pocket money sweets you could imbibe for seventy pence, but costing six pounds and more, He felt he had to eat. The squid: texture of shoe. The prawn toast: where it hadn’t crackled in the frying, there was bread mush, looking like his baby sister’s fat toe skins after bath: mushy baby toes. He wanted to cry out. Boiled skin; flayed stuff. Jesus lashed. Mary crying. How? Why? And no-one will come.

Now he remembered the nightimes. Sometimes I am afraid to close my eyes at night for fear of falling. I shall fall and fall and not get up and it must be like dying or not dying and everyone thinking you had but you could not say. If I swallow, I can die. And I will fall. I’ve seen the pipes and the tubes of a human body and they are not well organised and choking could happen to anybody because nobody always knows what to do. A madness, a laughing illness could happen to you, however brave or clever or so well that you defeated a big illness. But he must not show his mother. And what if all this got back to Grandmother? She would be disappointed and trace it back to the wooden board when she had swept in, Maître Fromager, and make me tell her I did not like the manchego cheese.

He thought again of bloody steak, mango slivers, rolling parents. Laughing, oblivious, quoting.. And on and on. And when the pad thai came, again in tapas portions, he ate a mouthful and went rigid, aghast also at the thought he might expectorate six pounds eighty’s worth of noodles. Time was money and money was time, his dad said.

I need to go home.

Why? Don’t be ridiculous. Also people are looking.

I am going to choke.

You’ll be fine.

What if I die?

Of course you won’t die.

Why not? People definitely die of choking or it wouldn’t be on the telly.

Well…

So you can’t say it never happens.

Listen darling you must stop being so odd and understand that food is one of the great pleasures of life. A normal thing. What on earth has made you so uptight? You’re really not like anyone else in the family. I just don’t understand.

And he was also thinking, Take me back, I want to stay a child. Please let me. And, I hate you. You don’t see it, rolling on the floor and frying and slavering and your horrid mango slivers like a yellow corpse slip up to the light. I hate you. You don’t, you cannot understand me and you won’t try.

            More food came.

            And what is in here? In the Spanish-Thai muddle? All the things they might have mixed in or used to flavour it. Spanish omelette and heart and that nasty cheese that’s like beasts in heat and melting straw and rotting things and you said there were anchovies in it and things that tasted of lemon, but you didn’t say they were lemon. I can’t trust any of it.

And the boy ran.

Mother caught him, as mothers do. Admonishing, saying she simply could not see what the problem was. It wasn’t as though he was ill. Sighed and paid the bill, apologising to the manager. Over forty pounds for tiny things and indistinguishables and babies’ bath toes and bits of organ and weird cheese. And the memory of his grandmother looking disappointed in that way she had. He wasn’t like her friend’s grandson who would try anything and like it, too. Dear, dear. Boys today and I blame the mothers and if she had been my daughter I would have taught her how to raise a braver son.

And on and on. Crying into the storm all the journey home. Frightened to sleep for a death crevasse, all littered with manchego and nasty odoriferous hauntings, which opened beneath his feet with each falling to sleep jump. Rigid then until overcome, at four a.m. and too tired, too immutable with fright, to go to school the next day. And still scrambled egg arrived. This will make you strong. Like hell it will, viscous nasty thing made by the hands of beasts in heat.

Keep it quiet. Keep the house battened down. It’s hard to explain, this multi-layered suffering. If you took a food metaphor to deconstruct it—and you may know that planked or slated deconstructed food is all the rage just now—you could envision it like a trifle. On the bottom, there’s the sponge and that’s feeling guilty about being born and being a burden to your mother; the sherry soaked into the sponge is the shame drenched on you by (worst) grandmother because you’re not brave, not a trier, not pleasing or (alongside it) masculine enough like other grandsons. Then you’ve fruit. The fruit, first of all, depends on your poshness. Posh folk add kiwi fruit; the chavs, tinned strawberries—that’s what he’d heard them say about other people’s parents—no matter, though, the metaphor works either way: the pieces of fruit are the odds and ends of bad dreams and chunks of scorn and the lumber of certain failures, past and to come. The custard: cannot get out from the fruit: it’s viscous, like aortic blood in a bloody steak, or the gloop they drain out from the corpses before they flush; it’s death, being trapped. Ah, the cream, now what is that? It’s claustrophobia. You’re in a classroom, with the popular kids, and they’re pelting you on the back of your neck with the contents of their pencil cases and you don’t turn round. You’re told this won’t last forever, but you’re not sure because you were also reassured that choking wouldn’t happen and it did to that man on the telly and you know your mum was bullied in school and she still hates the school run with your primary age brother because of the cool girls she isn’t. So the cream. Gloop. Look, a swamp. It’s going to get you. Or is it quicksand, or the worst sort of snow or pus and infection and it’s seeping into you and you’re boy in bits but no-one knows. And there, in bed at night, or in the classroom being pelted on the back of the neck with fine-liners and protractors and somebody’s foul tooth-marked mouth-guard, that’s all there is.

Trifle kills. So do Thai Tapas. And Grandma, affineur, with her hateful tidbits. And when you fall to sleep, there’s the crevasse. And that’s what loss is. Going mad. Disease. Eventually disease will make you ill. And then there’s stuff you’re clawing at; can’t catch. Abhorrent  taste in your mouth all the while.

The boy sat sat rigid all night, for two nights: didn’t go to school. The doctor was called, but the boy wasn’t an emergency just yet. He gagged on egg and full fat carbonated and little tiny bites and even milky things that Mother was taught to get into him, somehow. And on the third day, overcome again by the tiredness, he slept and slept all day and half the night and when, at last he woke, he sipped with a straw and would never thereafter eat anything. Though he drank and gagged, but drank because he had to. No good toast, or pizza or roast or pasta things. Just fluid, with his straw, under control and bland, so no beasts on heat and that was that. And he wasn’t a child any more, though he looked like one.

His parents weren’t letting up on their own feasts.

Darling, look. Let’s make a salad. Do you remember Dido in The Aeneid? Yes, how could I forget? You were the one who read it to me, lulled me to sleep. She spoke about the lettuce and the long huge-bellied gourd. They were laughing as they crushed the foul garlic in the pestle and mortar, wrenching parsley from the ground and foul red onions. Laughing.

And on. And on. Slurp. Sip. What is wrong with him? Wrong until he was taller man-boy, then old man, being pumped and drained, too late to chew or bite; all gone. Anyway, childhood gone; all swallowed up by the fear-thing. The fear-thing you see out of the corner of your eye. That you try not to see. So you have a bun; a consoling cup of tea; a chat. And you hope it all, life—like this tale, really—is a metaphor for something greater, then discover it isn’t.

Yes, there were cups of tea, he could manage tea, but still he went toes up. Ill, mad, eyes not seeing and no-one came. He wasn’t dry for lack of fluid but his gums were violet and teeth pretty for lack of use; deep gorges around his lips for sucking life through straws.

At the wake, the glacé cherries winked from the top of the trifle, adorning the cream, custard, fruit and sherry-soaked sponge; a late addition for festivity’s sake. It wasn’t a kind wink. For cherries are little ruby fucker-devils; you could suffocate in a sponge; if the gin-poor had had more money, they’d have been expunged by sherry; custard and cream: get your foot wrong, and slurp, like a swamp and you’re under.

That poor boy.

Oh well, we tried, said his even older mother to his even older father. But he was nothing like us, was he? In the end, it was like a disease in our family, so I had to turn away, for my own preservation. Your own sweet preservation, darling. I must say—and I’m quoting Kierkegaard though obviously you’d know that—that it’s a shame how some men’s lusts are dull and sluggish, their passions sleepy. Oh I know, my love. That was him.

Now parcel up the rest of the food. You and I will have a midnight feast.

Writing updates from Anna Vaught

Hello. I am in the process of transferring my data over so I have a whizzier and more interactive site – with my social media links working properly – but come and say hello. I do post at https://www.facebook.com/annavaughtwrites/ but really, it’s twitter I like.

https://twitter.com/BookwormVaught/status/956086015105564672

Here is what I am up to! The first thing, which has made me extremely happy, is that my third book, Saving Lucia (mentioned below) will be published by Bluemoose Books in 2020. I’ve also started to write weird fiction and horror. More on this as I work, but my non-fiction, ‘Shadow Babies’ will be published soon on The Shadow Booth website, with two short stories, ‘Feasting; fasting’ and ‘Cave Venus et Stellas’, appearing in the next print anthology of the same. It’s a new, crowdfunded anthology. Do look! Here’s the current edition of the print and a website link:

http://www.theshadowbooth.com/p/store.html#!/The-Shadow-Booth-Vol-1-Paperback/p/97253611/category=0

http://www.theshadowbooth.com/

dollhouse-creepy-stars-hd-1080P-wallpaper-middle-size

I am currently submitting a piece on the theme of disease for the second edition of the new Lune Journal, so we shall see.

00: DISORDER

Although I can’t say much about this, I am in the process of working on a fourth book, a Southern Gothic novel called The Hollows. This is influenced very much by books I love and pieces of research I’ve been doing. I was fired up, also, by David Hackett Fischer’s Albion’s Seed, a wonderful piece of scholarship, detailing the folkways of four distinct groups of people who went from ‘Albion’ to America and what was transplanted with them in terms of culture, worship, food…do read it; such a fascinating book. My book is an account of very early settlers from the West Country…but it goes dark, very dark. My own Tidewater ‘Tess’ (do you see a clue to her origins there?) is a complex character and, in building a new life, begins to hold court. She is charismatic, brilliant, well read and to look at her…as you will hear, it is like looking into the sun. Except you should not. You should not look; or attend. Do not visit her in The Hollows of Appalachia. Yes, yes, I know: what’s a British writer, with a language that’s inflected by Welsh family and influence, even thinking of doing here? How on earth is she going to pull off the language? How will she have a ear? Well, for a start we are in the mid to late 17-th century, a favourite period of mine in British literature, history and culture and we have very early settlers, for whom there is little record of language spoken or adopted while in America, but a wealth from their recent ‘Albion’. Even so, mistakes will be all my own, but in case you think I am appropriating something, let me say that this is a region I love and I am married to a Georgian. More on which another time.

I have begun, having been asked by a heroine of mine, to draft with her a pitch for a collection of essays on a theme which I shall be able to detail soon.

A book I’ve co-edited is out this March. My Europe by Patrician Press.

http://patricianpress.com/book/my-europe-a-patrician-press-anthology/

My Europe – A Patrician Press Anthology, by Anna Johnson and Anna Vaught, editors

My second book, a novella called The Life of Almost, will be published by Patrician Press this October. Here: ‘This is a dark comedy set in Wales and a spectral reworking of Dickens’s Great Expectations. Almost is a boy, brought up by his sister, Perfection. He is shrouded by bereavement and surrounded by the hauntings of his family’s undead. He plays in the sea caves, visits graves, amongst mermaids, longing mermen, morticians, houses that respire and a poltergeist moss that grabs your foot. A cast of family and friends drawn from sea caves, the embalming table, the graveyard and the dark Clandestine House, which respires heavily and in which time has stopped. And like Pip, he sings into the sea and likes to tell stories – the key theme of the book which is the story of his life, his struggles and triumphs. He is thwarted in love but understands – the night he meets a ragged convict, for the convict is a merman, come on land – that he has deep and commanding powers.’

Almost is a bard boy, you know. And what is more, how can he be there when the eprigraph tells you that he was, some time ago, drowned at sea with his beloved Seren, of Clandestine House on the Cleddau? I’ve sprinkled the novella with original poems, too; all about landscape, love, sea-worlds, magic and longing; that word hiraeth, in Welsh.

http://patricianpress.com/book/the-life-of-almost/

The Life of Almost, by Anna Vaught

Oh yes, if you do look at the Patrician Press site (link above), here’s my first book:

kha

‘This is a black comedy in which Alison conceived in childhood an alter ego called ‘Hapless Ally’ to present a different, more palatable version of herself to her family and to the world beyond. Ominously, the alter ego began to develop autonomy. Alison deals with this helped by a varied catalogue of imaginary friends. The book is about serious matters: fear, confusion, dark days of depression and breakdowns. It carries a timely message to anyone pole-axed by depression or associated problems — or any reader interested in such things: you can, like Alison, survive and prevail. Ah, if you had to survive — would you kill for it? Now that is an interesting question.’

It’s an autobiographical novel.

My third book, Saving Lucia will be published by Bluemoose Books in 2020…I mentioned this above. I really do feel that this press is one of the finest in the British Isles and I am so delighted that they have accepted my book. Here are its central characters. The Honourable Violet Gibson, who tried to assassinate Mussolini in 1926, and her fellow hospital patient, Lucia Joyce, daughter of the novelist James Joyce.

Image result for violet gibson

Image result for lucia joyce

Knock yourself out. Go shopping on the Bluemoose site or at an independent bookshop near you. I am about to read Harriet Paige’s Man with a Seagull on his Head.

https://bluemoosebooks.com/books

 

 

Here are the other pieces I’ve had published since mid December.

http://losslit.com/feature/give-sorrow-words/ ‘Give Sorrow Words’ – narrative non-fiction

https://thecontemporarysmallpress.com/2017/11/24/an-indie-press-christmas/ a piece about buying Christmas presents from the indie presses

AND

https://thecontemporarysmallpress.com/2017/12/01/everywhere-is-somewhere/ – a review of the memoir of cultural pioneer, Naseem Khan

the contemporary small press

A site for small presses, writers, poets & readers

 

http://review31.co.uk/essay/view/50/diversity-risk-taking-and-community-a-celebration-of-2017%E2%80%99s-small-press-anthologies  An account of my favourite mixed form indie anthologies of 2017 in Review31

Image result for know your place dead ink

Refugees and Peacekeepers – A Patrician Press Anthology, by Anna Johnson, Editor    

And https://visualverse.org/submissions/the-christmas-chrysalid/ one hour to write a piece stimulated by this month’s image…

Coming next, reviews of Neil Griffiths’ As a God Might Be (Dodo Ink),Image result for as a god might be griffiths

Tommy Hazard’s Takeaway (Morbid Fiction) Image result for takeaway tommy hazard

…and Gary Budden’s Hollow Shores (Dead Ink)Image result for lost shores gary budden

None of this is my day job and yet…

Anna xxx