Coming Out Of My Shell

Someone once mocked a political opponent by saying that they “could not run a whelk stall”. I don’t think I could either – because I’d eat them all. Whelks are far too good to serve or sell to other people. I’m not too sure how well known they are in the USA but I think Italians may call them Scungilli. If you fancy some nice juicy yet chewy snail type food here is a link to a NY Times article

Here in France they are called “bulot”. As I write this little blog a background fantasy of sea food is playing in the middle of my mind.  The attached You Tube clip is just to show you how to be sure to add enough salt to oxidise your cardiac pacemaker.

The only reason Fruits de Mer and bulots are going round in my head is that I have just seen some at la poissonnerie and denied myself even a single lick. Today is a fasting day  on the 5:2 diet so it’s all about sacrifice. I still don’t think I could run a whelk stall though.

Allowing myself to look at whelks was a special treat to celebrate the completion of the final story for my forthcoming collection of shorts and novelettes which will go out under the banner Love In A Hopeless Place. They are all stories of love among poorer people in urban settings. The final story has probably been the most difficult thing I have ever tried to do. I know it will shock and appal many people. In the end I thought I had to write it because it is more or less a re-creation of true events without too much intervention by me. I’m never afraid of putting sex in my stories and in cases where this is what motivates characters, you just cannot avoid it. I am a bit nervous of the contents. There are advisers around me of the Disney tendency who have turned a ghostly pale on first reading. Might be a good sign eh?  Good job I’m an orphan. The title is indeed a lift of the Rihanna song because in the story, a couple of the characters sing it. 

Emma thinx: Freedom Air – calorie free seafood to inhale. 

Homeward Bound

It’s week 4 of the Warm Fuzzies Blogfest and it is also the last week of my daily blog before it moves to a new twice-weekly schedule.  

The quest this week is to discover what makes us scribblers do it at all? Hmmm – well, I would have to give two separate answers. I write poetry because I want to magnify that small voice that is the essence of life. Most of the time you cannot hear it above the rumblings of lusts, stomachs, diesel engines and the pick and mix dilemma of daily decision. As I have aged the sound has become ever fainter and more distant. These days it is the blurred hiss of the TV sound system between segments of the jangling multi-coloured commercial breaks.

I write Romance because I like sexual passion, travel, wine and drama amongst most other things as well. The sensation of warm sun on my skin, a glow of Bordeaux wine and a long deep kiss of lips and souls that starts to build my desire, is where I want to be mentally all the time. As it is I aim a bus through heavy traffic and shop in Walmart. I am saved by a gorgeous lover. Romance writing is a turn on and is intended to nudge the love nodes of my readers. For me this  is fantastic because it gives me too an erotic buzz and allows me to use what I learned about words and moods as a poet, but without the ruthless discipline of poetry and short stories. If I combine my two responses it would be in saying that I write because I love words and words of love are the writing of our emotional DNA. 

I have chosen a passage from my novel “Knockout!” when the lovers are spending the night in Paris. They have dined and become engaged that evening. Both Anna and Freddie know that huge forces beyond their rapture are hurtling in. At stake are their lives – or worse – their love.

That night they made love tenderly, without urgency or complication, reaching out to each other like the roots of two seeds blown by chance and interwoven as one. At around midnight they lay touching hands in the moonlight. The window was a little open and admitted sounds from the street. In the distance voices and traffic spoke the muffled language of other lives. Somewhere close by in another apartment a sad saxophone played reflective moody late night jazz. If there had ever been a moment when she would have stopped time it would have been then – in the mellow moments of their after-love and their before-life.
The great River Seine rippled and pushed on to the sea as the sun tip-toed the back stairs of the world climbing towards dawn across Paris. Maybe the morning light would never uncover two lovers hiding within the protection of each other’s arms…

I would like to add my thanks to Juliana for hosting this blogfest. It has been a marvellous opportunity for me to encounter so many other writers. I know this kinda stuff is hard and eats time and so I wish you now a little peace and poetic space.
Tonight as I drove my route, the setting sun was a cold red disc in a sky of cruel blue. The kids were singing along to Rihanna’s “We found love in a hopeless place”. A particular lad always wants to sit next to me. He pointed at the volume control to indicate he wanted to pump it up. I pumped it up as a V formation of rooks passed across the void of space and we sang, bopping about in our seats. For just a moment I really felt the lonely turn of our planet in the cold indifference of the cosmos and heard it filled with defiance and a kind of love. The lad cannot speak.

Emma thinx: A beautiful second will fill all time.

For Juliana: WFPF 4xposts plus 4xtweets = 24 ?