January inklets

So much to do and so little time.  I’ve been working on more rings and other jewellery for Seadrake Creations.  My photography has certainly improved, but I’m still struggling to be seen and found on etsy (http://www.etsy.com/shop/SeadrakeCreations?ref=si_shop) as there are so many millions of people selling there.  I do very well at the craft fairs, so this year, I’ll be looking for more fairs to sell at.

I loved doing the bat ring for Berni.  She’s going to wear it to the next Dracula Society meeting – a perfect setting for such a goth ring.  Other jewellery projects have been doing more rings, working with traditional sterling bezels (look at the etsy moonstone ring which blends fine silver with sterling https://www.etsy.com/listing/120699333/beautiful-6mm-moonstone-in-fine-silver).  My wax ring is looking beautiful with celtic spiral and trinity knots, but it’s too expensive to have cast just now. I’ll have to wait until I’ve sold more work.

As for writing… I suppose I needed a break.  I’ve not written anything new for knowonder save for the forward to the next anthology coming out soon.  The ideas seem to be bottlenecked in my head but come out as dark teen fiction – probably because I’m still editing my YA 16+ fantasy book, Downtrodden.  Blood Tide was swept up in the free offers after Christmas – over 400 readers downloaded the book internationally in three days, but only one person left a review.  Thankfully, it was a five star review, and that did make my day.  After years of toil, research and rewrites, it has come to pretty much nothing. Yet I’m happy I wrote it.  It is, in my opinion, my best work – something that I may never top, which is a scary thought.

The days are passed wondering what else I can do to promote my work.  There is always more to be done, but there is danger in just throwing out cash for google-ads only to find your time and efforts would have been better off spent on something else.  So what on earth to do next?  I really want to get this fantasy edited, dusted and kindled.  A wonderfully supportive fellow author has shown me the path to Smashwords – an online resource that allows authors and publishers to upload to most retail outlets for little to no cost.  So I suppose I’ll continue to slog forward, blinded by the icy headwinds, recklessly delusional in the hope that someday, someone will pick up my work and hand it to someone who might send me a good contract.

Four Leaves

*I wrote this children's rhyming tale last year but it never found a home until now...

Four Leaves

 

Four leaves on my clover,

four leaves, I can see!

I picked it when Dad used the mower,

and now I’ve got wishes for me.

 

It was a tricky thing I’ll say

to get to it in time,

because the mower was so fast

and its blades are sharp and fine.

 

I did a tumble, roll and jump,

just like they taught at school,

(that’s acrobat school don’t you know

don’t think that I’m a fool).

 

As I said, I jumped and rolled,

or something of that sort.

And when I plucked up that clover,

I knew I was a clever sport.

 

It happened so very fast,

when I saw it had four leaves.

I’d been sitting on the rooftop,

hidden among the eaves.

 

Impossible? No, not at all,

not when you know the moves.

From roof to tree to grass I rolled

and without even wearing my shoes.

 

Now, now, don’t think me odd,

I do it all the time…

I liberate small things you see,

that I think are so divine.

 

Last week it was a chocolate cake

that my sister had.

She would have eaten it, truly so!

But instead I made her mad.

 

I swooped down on a rope,

(I’d been practicing high wire).

I popped that cake into my mouth

and Sister swore blue fire.

 

And two weeks before,

I rescued a lost cat.

She was about to be eaten, (I swear!)

by a large lady in a blue hat.

 

I got in trouble of course,

but it’s worth it in the end.

With cat and cake and clovers all

any rule I’ll bend.

 

Anyway, I digress, what was I to say?

Ah yes, my lovely, leafy clover.

Four leaves all for me to wish,

but for what I’ll think it over.

 

Should I wish for a new bike,

with shiny red new paint?

Or maybe a huge trampoline,

with that I’d have no complaint.

 

Then, I suppose, I could wish something nice,

for all my family to share.

Nah, I think I keep all four wishes,

a nine-year-old shouldn’t care.

 

“Alan, get back inside,”

a voice shouted from behind.

And all my wishes vanished,

blanked by the daily grind.

 

It was just my imagination after all,

but a boy’s got to wish sometime.

It’s back to homework now for me,

No trampoline or bike so fine.

 

Until, at least… maybe Christmas time.

 

 

 

 

The California visit was lovely; I got to wear short sleeves again and wear sunscreen and sunglasses while playing at the beach in the mornings and having fun with family in the afternoons.  Claudia loved getting her feet splashed by the sea and chasing the waterline as it rushed and receded (well, I did lift her when it rushed at us, but she did the chasing right afterwards).  As always, there just wasn’t enough time to do everything and see everybody, especially as afternoon naptime interrupted the usual routine we’d do during a visit.  Sorry to all my friends I didn’t have a chance to contact.

Writing has slowed to an invisible crawl this month – but will be renewed with a ferocious vigour with the work on my non-fiction book, Three Victorian Women in Asylum.  Well, it may be a booklet, rather than a book.  I want it to have a good impact without being too heavy for general public reading. 

Another rejection from Highlights Magazine.  Apparently, my writing was spot on but my timing was out and they couldn’t use it.  As prompted, I’ll keep trying! 

There is just not enough time to work on all my projects, but after my non-fiction book, this winter will be all about creating new works of art in the form of rings, polymer clay dragons, and other Seadrake Creations.  After talking with a designer in Long Beach who made the most amazing sea-inspired jewellery, I’ve fallen in love with lost wax casting.  I have a few other works to polish off and sell before I can buy any more equipment, but I’ll be posting my new items on the Seadrake Creations etsy shop, so do keep an eye out.  I’ve also obtained a beautiful morganite stone and two small pink diamonds that I’m planning on designing a gold ring around.  I can’t wait!



Better late...

Once again, I’ve left my blog far too late to update.  I don’t even want to look to see when my last one was… and after I’d pledged to spend more time blogging.  As usual with life, once things seem to get on course, a bulldozer of events decides to take me down.  I suppose having a toddler to look after, putting together my non-fiction book, starting a new jewellery business, learning new camera techniques, doing knowonder stories (although that has stopped until the new year as they have so many subs to wade through), working on my children’s book, doing three chapters for the Isabella anthology and setting up the new house was too much.  A blog just wasn’t going to happen.

 

So I’ve had to make some changes (more personal cuts).  For October, I focused on Seadrake Creations and the house (while being Mum of course!)  and I’m starting to relax again.  I’ve stepped back from the Isabella anthology but will refine my work I’ve already done and step in when help is needed on the publishing side.  Then, December is going to be just my non-fiction book and celebrating Christmas Dickens style (okay, well, maybe a bit of Elvis thrown in ;)

 

Seadrake work has been going well.  I had four commissions in October and my first two sales on etsy (pirate ring and sapphire with silver; see link below for pics)

http://www.etsy.com/shop/SeadrakeCreations/sold?ref=shopinfo_sales_leftnav

 

My workshop is developing.  I’ve been using an eco-pickle.  For those who don’t know what pickle is, it’s a solution that jewellery is put into to clean up firescale after annealing or soldering.  It’s usually sulphuric acid and even ‘safety pickle’ has some very unpleasant chemicals.  After doing some online research, it seems that the census for the most effective pickle anyway is a solution of vinegar and salt!  It may smell like a chippy in the workshop now, but at least I’m less likely to burn my face off (cue scene from Westworld).

 

I’ve also been working on a line of medieval rings with traditional cabochon stone set in silver (anyone seen Kingdom of Heaven, they may recognize this ring).  I’ve kicked off this by first testing out the method with PMC silver and tourmaline (as in Pic above) but I’ve ordered the most beautiful rainbow moonstone to try it out with sterling silver.  Although, there was a debacle with an e-bay seller.  I like to use cheaper stones when I’m experimenting and then go with the nicer stones for final products, but now I think I’ll skip the cheap stone phase as I ended up with three unusable stones in a pack of five moonstones.  I don’t think I’ll use any of them for the rings I had in mind as the good stone I bought from a dealer is so beautiful, it outshines the others by far.

 

 

But to keep readers from yawning, here is a story that knowonder said no to:

 

 

 

Vampire Kitty

 

 

It was late at night when Nathan heard a scratching at the window – he knew it wasn’t the tree as it had been trimmed not too long ago. He also knew it wasn’t his friend Rob; Nate’s room was on the second floor.

 

Scratch, scratch, tap, tap.

 

Nate pulled the covers over his head and listened.

 

Scratch, scratch, tap, meeeoooowwwwww!

 

He jumped. Of course, it was a cat! Cats can jump that far, right? Nate went to the window and looked out. Two bright green eyes stared at him, their orbs were enormous and looked hungry. “Meeoooowwwww!”

 

Not being able to help himself, Nate opened the window. He didn’t know what came over him – he wouldn’t normally open the window to a strange animal, especially one with eyes like… Nathan shivered.

 

“Mmmbrrroowww?” she asked. Nate found himself nodding and leading her to the kitchen for some milk. She didn’t drink it, but looked at him long and hard as if she was reading his mind.

 

Nate didn’t want her in the house – his parents and little sister were sleeping soundly, not knowing that he’d let in a stranger. A stranger with claws and teeth. The black cat meowed again and Nate stumbled back to bed, asleep in an instant and dreaming.

 

In his dream it was very dark and glowing green eyes surrounded him. He was in a forest, trying to get home and there was meowing all around him.

 

He woke, drenched in sweat, with two similar green eyes staring into his. The meowing was loud. Nate rubbed his itchy neck, half expecting there to be scratches or bite marks. There were none, but he kept rubbing it anyway.

 

“Oooh kitty!” Renee’s voice shouted in her usual high pitch that only three year olds seem to be able to produce. Then Nate heard her running down the stairs to tell their parents. Nate smiled. Maybe he couldn’t say no to the furry intruder, but he was sure that his parents would.

 

He was wrong.

 

“Oh, you’re right Renee, it’s a beautiful cat. Where did you find her Nate? Oh, it doesn’t matter, she’s here now just like she should be.” Nathan’s parents both seemed to have fallen in love with her.

 

“Well you’re not fooling me,” said Nate when the family had left the kitchen (they had all just finished breakfast and the cat had again ignored her milk).

 

“Mrrrrow?” She walked boldly up to Nate and rubbed her head against his leg. It seemed like a normal cat thing to do and Nate relaxed just a bit. But then the cat jumped up on the table and did that staring again. Her large green orbs drilled into his like she was trying to tell him something important.

 

Hungry

 

Nathan jumped. The cat had just sent him a clear thought. It was just one word, and it was surrounded with more feeling than sound, but it was clear. The skin on his arm started to prickle and goose bumps appeared. The cat really expected him to feed it. But he knew it didn’t really want normal cat food. As if it understood what Nate had been thinking, it jumped up on his lap and purred.

 

Nate sighed. “Right.” At least she hadn’t scratched or bitten anyone in the house yet. Or was she just biding her time? “If I feed you will you go away?”

 

The cat looked at him. One ear pricked up as if in thought, then she jumped down and sauntered away.

 

Nathan felt sure that if he didn’t find the right sort of food for her, she’d find her own; and it’d be something that he really didn’t want. He rubbed his neck again.

 

Later that day his dad brought back a bag of dried cat food. Nate was watching TV and Renee kept trying to turn the channel. “Ha!” she said as he turned his head towards the door. She grabbed the remote and turned the TV channel over to her favourite cartoon network.

 

Nate ignored her and followed Dad into the kitchen. Dad poured the dry food into a bowl. The tinkling noise echoed through the kitchen but the cat, sleeping on the table, didn’t stir.

 

“Huh,” said his dad. “I was sure she was hungry.”

 

“She is,” said Nate in a miserable voice. He supposed if the cat was going to try to eat any one of them tonight, at least it had better be him.

 

“We just need to find what she likes,” said his mum. “I’ll go to the market and get a range of food.”

 

When Nate’s mum came back she brought five different varieties of wet cat food. The cat’s ears pricked up, she sniffed each one of the packets, turned up her nose, then looked into Nate’s eyes again. She was looking very pleased with herself for some reason.

 

“Is it me, or is she getting bigger?” asked Nate’s dad.

 

Nate bit the inside of his lip. She did look bigger than before. Was there something in the house she was eating? He couldn’t see anything and the packets of food remained.

 

At bedtime, Nathan made sure the cat was locked in the kitchen. His excuse was that she could be with the food and still jump out the kitchen side window if she wanted out. The real reason was that he wanted to keep his family safe. From her.

 

Nathan couldn’t sleep. His room was right over the kitchen. When the cat jumped about or moved, he could hear her. When it was too quiet he got suspicious. There were some noises, then it went dead quiet. He heard a door creak open, then he heard soft thudding on the stairs. Finally, his own door creaked and a black furry head poked through. Long and sleek, the cat came in and jumped up onto the bed. She was even bigger now and licking her paws as if she’d finished a meal. She curled up, started purring, and went to sleep next to Nate.

 

Nate jumped up when he was woken up by screaming. Bright sunshine flooded the bedroom. Somehow, Nate had slept until morning and the cat was gone. “No, no, no,” he repeated as he rushed down the stairs. Renee was on the kitchen floor in sobs, but she seemed unhurt. “Bad kitty,” she said, pointing at the cat.

 

Looking down, Nathan saw a mouse. It was dead – but it hadn’t been killed like a normal mouse hunted by a normal cat. Two puncture marks were on its tiny neck. Nate was puzzled. One little mouse was hardly enough to feed that huge (and continually growing) black cat.

 

Then he looked at the packets of cat food. At first glance, they looked untouched. A little deflated, but not opened. Upon closer inspection, relief washed over him and he smiled. Each flattened packet had two small puncture holes just like the mouse. His vampire cat could eat normal cat food after all.

 

Inky Names

The season is changing and it's time to soon upload the historical novel.  In about five days, it will be on kindle (hoorah!) and I keep chaning my mind on what name to publish it under.  The traditional marketing ideal is that for each genre of book, there should be a different name.  My historical fiction name would be Elizabeth Drake, which I love (old family name too), but as I'm not publishing traditionally, I think I'll stick to my nearly established name of Holly Stacey.  If (emphasis on if rather than when) I ever get a traditional publishing deal, then I may branch out a bit and use a pen name.  But not now.  The pen name didn't do terribly well for Raven Wyrstone (The Howling Moon - http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Howling-Moon-Raven-Wyrstone/dp/0956036341/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1347304373&sr=8-1) although I love the book.

Okay, it's written in my blog, so I've got to stick to it.  No waking up at 2am and deciding to change again (the 2am waking is thanks to my lawyer troubles... still that one bit of paper is awaiting a signature).  Truly.  Sticking to the one name.  Except for the non-fiction on Victorian asylums.  That will be under H.E. Stacey...

Ah, and here is my kindle link for my YA urban fantasy - http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Faerie-Conspiracies-ebook/dp/B00955JPCK/ref=sr_1_1_title_1_kin?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1347304405&sr=1-1

Solicitor Splats

 

We were supposed to exchange on Monday.  Our solicitor has been a dream.  However, all solicitors in the chain are meant to be in the office at the same time.  I’m sure someone is on holiday without having told anybody else.  Not only that, but they were all talking to each other two weeks ago and now… silence.  Number X in the chain is not available to anybody, solicitor or not.  All house moves are on hold.

 

Its crazy, isn’t it?  How so many people can have their lives on hold just for one phone call?  And what happens when one of them is hit by a car? Has a family accident? Gets a real flu?  The world shouldn’t have to come to a grinding halt.  The system is terribly flawed.  We are chain free – we don’t even have to wait for our house to sell and with a good solicitor, it’s taken eight weeks (and counting) for all the house checks to come through (that’s checks, not cheques, which they’ve been having no problems accepting).

 

So where does this leave us?  Boxes are strewn everywhere.  Poor Claudia has to eat in front of the TV (tough, isn’t it?) because the dining table is covered with boxes (and the cat… she loves boxes).  My projects are all on hold and I’m going absolutely stir crazy.  Still, we went out to Chappel Beer Festival last night and that was good.  A date night with beer (although I ended up on a rather nice medium-sweet perry) and chocolate – there was a chocolate stall!

 

Fingers crossed we get a phone call today… Fingers crossed that nothing is mortally wrong with that solicitor!

Introductions

Despite having put all projects on hold for a few weeks, I thought it might be good to post the introdution to my Three Women in Asylum book.  In fairness, it was written while waiting for my train home.

Also, as the book will be dedicated to Isabella, a girl from the late Victorian Era who helped guide me back to Borthwick, I've posted the photo of 'The Dreamers' who I'm writing about for the fiction anthology.

Introduction:

 As an archaeologist and children’s author, it may seem strange that I’ve decided to write a book on women in asylum in the Victorian Era.  Stranger still when my archaeological focus has always been early Medieval.  Having excavated with several rescue archaeology teams, I had occasionally come across Victorian archaeology – it couldn’t be missed although it was almost always taken for granted and discarded.  The answer is very simple.  When I was a MA student in York, my class was led to the Bothwick Institute to look at medieval city plans.  They were truly amazing, but what caught my eye the most and what lodged deep into my psyche, were the photographs on the wall.  At the time, Borthwick was located on the premises of what used to be Clifton Hospital – the North Riding Mental Asylum.  The photos were on inmates, women who were deemed to be insane. 

            I knew a little of what Victorian asylums were like – they had a reputation, along with prisons, as being places of unrest.  Suicides were common and recovery rare (or so I thought at the time).  Women who were postnatal depressive, who were mourning the loss of a young child, who may have miscarried, were almost always sent to an asylum.  Not a very healthy way to grieve.  Not only this, but these women were lumped in with maniacal and suicidal dangerous women; those with lunacy in the family.  Melancholia seemed to be the number one problem with women in asylum, followed closely by ‘mania’.  With so many mental illnesses clumped together, it was hardly a recipe for recovery.

            I wondered then, and for over a decade afterwards, what had happened to these women; what was their confinement in an asylum like, and were they ever released?  It wasn’t until I was writing for a fiction anthology based on a Victorian portrait of a young woman who looked pregnant that I was finally tempted to research the Clifton Hospital records.  Writing for the anthology brought back those eyes, staring at me through their protective glass.  Young unwed women of pauper backgrounds like the one in the photograph I was writing about were often sent to the asylum and the babies whisked away to orphanage or workhouse.

            And so, halfway finished with a fictional short story, I ended up booking a train to York.  The Borthwick Institute had relocated since I’d been.  At the time of writing, it was located at the main university’s campus library. The photos I’d seen before, now packed away; only one lonely image of a Clifton Hospital patient remained, pinned to the notice board, watching me research.  I enjoyed the moral support. 

            I started with the female photograph album and then moved onto Female Patient Admissions, then to Female Case Studies.  Each tome offered thousands of names, their origins, their history and family, sometimes their address.  One thing was certain, by the time I’d read through their case, I felt like I knew them.  On my first day of research, I kept reading entries of women who’d spent a lifetime in asylum.  Their reports went much the same, about four entries per year from Dr Nicolson, who I also felt an affinity for (I was saddened to learn that he’d spent years in the same role, only to become an alcoholic and dismissed from service because it was discovered he’d married and had a family outside the hospital; something that was against the rules).  When I’d read the final entry, ‘patient died in the presence of the ward nurse,’ I’d often feel like crying.  My second day of research yielded much happier results as most of the women I’d read about ended up ‘cured’ and discharged.  There were so many women, youngest having been 16 and many up to their 60’s.  One woman was so bereaved when her doctor husband died, she was suicidal and distraught.  She’d constantly told Dr Nicolson how she and her husband ‘were ruined’ and how she was ‘lost’.  Finally, two of her good friends wrote to the commission and requested her release.  There were no more notes, but I hoped that they were looking after her well.  Of her adult children, there was no mention.

            So how did I get to just three case studies?  As I said above, there were thousands of entries in the handful of years I wanted to focus on.  1889 was the date I was primarily after, as the photo book with the patients’ images was set to that date.  I first looked through the photos, picked out about five and then started hunting for their records.  Of those, three had such telltale signs of postnatal depression, broken heart and bereavement that I felt those were the women I should focus on.  It was difficult not to be swept up in every story and I would strongly urge anyone interested to spend just a day reading up on these women at Borthwick.