writing for health and happiness

assignments for MA

2009-09-23T09:26:00.000-07:00

Phew! Just looked at and organised in module and date order in separate folders (displacement activity again) all the assignments for this term or bimester, or trimester, or something. We have to write a piece of flash fiction, come up with 20 ideas for stories, pick one of them, research it, critique our research, write a working synopsis and monologue, write an analysis of a life story, write a life story while all the time remembering to be self-reflexive about all these efforts. Oh yes, and read at least 100 books. (well, I haven't counted but........) I love reading. I'm not sure how long I'm going to love reading...... Why is it that the idea I have had since about 2006 is still in note and research form? Why does it seem a fantastic, blockbuster of an idea until I actually start to try and make my notes make sense? Why can't I just leave it alone and do something else? Answers on a postcard please.

I MUST REMEMBER THAT I AM TALENTED, THAT I HAVE THE RIGHT KIND OF ENERGY, WIT AND PERSONALITY to do this course. (that is what the course director said so it must be true.)

Why am I doing an MA?

So that I can finish a book, get a book published and therefore get a better paid job, possibly while doing a PhD.

So there.

Moveable Feast - wicked band

2009-09-16T11:52:00.001-07:00

http://moveablefeastonline.co.uk/lyrics.htm

2009-09-15T04:37:00.000-07:00

DISPLACEMENT OR HOW NOT TO GET ON WITH THE MANUSCRIPT

So, I’ve just finished one of the books on our reading list ”Driftnet” by Lin Anderson and thoroughly enjoyed it. A straightforward detective novel with lots of human interest. I noticed it was published by Luath Press, so instead of continuing work on my own manuscript I decided I had to find out what were all the other publishers in Edinburgh. Found a map of them – what a lot! Also maps of authors in Scotland – even more! Now I was on a horribly distracting website with interviews with people like Gavin Esler – no I hadn’t realised that he wrote novels as well as being a journalist either, Keith Gray etc. Ah, there’s a link to “Homecoming” – I fear that I have not made the most of the opportunities thrown up by this event so had a look – interesting article by Andrew O Hagan about Burns – is this displacement activity ever going to end? What are your displacement activities before getting down to work?

Must stop now and review my GOALS. I might even post them if they look impressive enough

Extract from short story

2009-09-15T02:16:00.000-07:00

TANGO STORY BY ALISON SUMMERS

Language has its limitations. Even when you both speak the same language, it’s still possible to be misunderstood. Body language isn’t much better. Everyone reacts to it unconsciously and I really mean unconsciously. How many times have you found yourself palming your bare throat in front of a man you don’t fancy? So why are you sending out the classic signal of “here I am, come fuck me”? Is it nature’s way of ensuring optimal chance of procreation? So lingo is unreliable.
Tango, now – a whole new ball game. See first of all, you can’t just meet someone and tango off down the road with them. Oh, no. You settle into the embrace. The degree of closeness is up to you. Choose from cheek to cheek, head to head, melted into each other or leaning in but with caution. Now create a connection. With your body. You have to connect through the weight you put on your feet. So during the first few bars of music you both shift from foot to foot until you end up on the same feet as each other – when he is on his right foot, you are also on your right foot. To the uninitiated it can look as though you are both fidgeting because you need the loo.........
The first time I came across this technique I wondered why we hadn’t just started dancing. I thought the guy was a bit shy and cautious about launching. As indeed he should have been since inevitably when he set off, I set off on the wrong foot. Eventually, I learnt what the hopping about was all about and now I can shift subtly from left to right with the best of them.
This connection lark is not just about getting off on the right foot, though. In tango the couple learn to dance as one body. One way of looking at it is as though your hearts are stuck together. At all times your torsos have to be parallel. So whatever your leggies are
doing – whizzing about, lifting in the air, kicking in between the partner’s legs, your hearts have to be within whispering distance. Which is nice.
“Tango is so sexy!” That’s what everyone says. Hmm. It’s quite hard work actually. It is the most knackering mental exercise I have ever done. You, see, you have to really concentrate and I mean really. The slightest distraction like a nagging thought about that colleague you forget to phone or the motto on your partner’s t-shirt can break the connection between you and your partner in seconds. To dance tango you have to give your whole brain to it. Multitasking goes out the window. It’s heart to heart, two beating as one.
I’m not your obvious tango dancer. I don’t like sex, I’m not super skinny, dark or dashing. I don’t go on holiday to Latin countries and I’m not naturally graceful. In fact if it hadn’t been for that daft sharing your hobby exercise at the literacy class.............yeah, well we all had to do a ten minute presentation on our fave leisure pursuit (I demonstrated stain removal from dry clean only fabrics) and Carol brought in a selection of dance films. The ballet and the belly dancing left me cold and normally I don’t go for Antonio Banderas – he looks a bit worn and dirty. But the way that woman danced in that grotty school cellar. It made me feel hot under the collar. She was beautiful, yes but there was something else. The way she moved you could feel the magnetic pull she had on both her partner and her audience. Sucking them in, so that they couldn’t look anywhere but at her.
So I did some research. Couldn’t believe it when I found that there was a huge tango scene in Edinburgh. If you want to, you can dance tango every night. I plumped for the free class on Sunday nights. I was so nervous beforehand I had to keep ducking into local cafes to go to the loo. I nearly went home but eventually pulled myself away from the toilet and climbed the stairs to the Counting House function room. Up an unpromising stair the tango room turned out to be a confection of mirrors, red velvet and dark wood panelling. Around the walls were chairs behind small tables decorated by tall thin vases filled with carnations. Issuing from the pores of the wall wailed a mournful air that pulled at the heartstrings and instantly made you want to glide on the glossy wooden floor. There were two or three girls sitting down, chatting to each other. A short plump man with a shiny pate bustled about arranging the chairs. I sat down near the door and pushed off my outdoor shoes. I slipped my high heeled sandals (the ones I wear once a year in Bulgaria) out of my Lidl bag and struggled to fix the fiddly buckles round my ankles.

2009-09-15T02:12:00.000-07:00

13 July 2009

Oyster card winks the gate open
Flat fish, sea and sky blue – so far from the ocean

14 July 2009

Bi-Polar

Whirling like a dervish,
A wheel pinned to a fence
But straining. Lavish
Sparks explode towards freedom. Tensed
With effort fit to burst,
A brain will blow a gasket
Aiming for the stars. Worse
Than wacky, just a basket –
Case. The needles jab and flatten.
One spark stutters, dies. Left
Over ashes, dried out case. Batten
On drugs, all senses bereft.
Heavy with silent screams
Curtain falls, no more dreams.

2009-09-15T02:10:00.000-07:00

The Holiday

A deafening explosion shook the tour bus as the guests were clambering down the steps.
Geordie plucked the straps of his string vest and grinned.
“This is going to be a bloody good holiday!”
Picking his way over the debris of metal and bodies, Geordie heaved his leopard print suitcase out of the partially destroyed bus. The case was charred but still in one piece. The luggage label “Trench Warfare Luxury Holidays” was still attached.
Now that the dust had settled, Geordie looked round to see who else had survived the blast. The tiny blonde with the huge boobs was lying on the ground.
“What a crying waste!” Most of the other passengers were dead or badly wounded. The holiday reps were making their way through the bodies, identifying or bandaging.
Geordie shrugged, picked up his suitcase and squelched towards reception.
“Very authentic mud, “ he thought.
He grinned at the small man quivering behind the reception desk.
“Ow-do, mate!”
“Good evening, sir, may I have your name?”
“George Fortune, Geordie.”
“Excellent, sir. Single bunker, share communal latrines, side view of battlefield requested. That correct, sir?”
“Spot on, mate.” Geordie leaned in close to the receptionist who recoiled slightly.
“Now, I’m willing to pay top dollar or franc or euro or whatever it takes if you can find me one of those classy resistance girlies – the ones with raincoats and berets.”
“The Resistance Barn experience is down past no-man’s land at the end of the village, sir.”
Geordie winked and stroked his nose.
“Black market?”
“What might you require, sir?”
“What tickles their fancy, matey?”
The receptionist stiffened.
“I think you’ll find nylons and chocolate do the trick, sir. May I make a suggestion, sir?”
”Go ahead.”
“For real authenticity, perhaps try to cultivate a posh English accent, sir?”
Geordie walked away from reception, polishing his genuine First World War bayonet. Blood and it was only the first day.

2009-09-15T01:57:00.000-07:00

Big Brother in the Dragon’s Den

It’s a new reality tv show – a hybrid of Big Brother, Ten Years Younger and Challenge Anneka. You take an ugly bird, give her a makeover so that she looks like a princess. Then you find a really fierce dragon, install him in a cave and get them to imprison the made over bird. Set up a few challenges for a bunch of fit blokes and get the audience to vote on which handsome young man will go and rescue the bird from the dragon. It can’t fail. Well that’s what we all thought.

Until Tracy came along. She didn’t say anything about being a vet in her interview.
Everything was going to plan until the moment when Gerard galloped up on his white horse, lance at the ready. Tracy rushed out of the cave and blocked his way. She nearly got trampled, but White Rum is a seasoned TV horse and swerved just in time. Gerard fell off and was swearing so much that the bleeper mechanism nearly blew up.
“What the fuck is she doing?” the assistant director growled.
“No, this is good, element of surprise, let her run with it” said the director, his eyes gleaming.
Gerard, cheated of his dramatic moment, dusted off his plastic armour, checked himself in the camera mirror and turned to face Tracy.
“Princess Tracy, I have come to rescue you from the clutches of the wicked, dangerous dragon.” The sound man snorted as he heard Gerard mutter under his breath, “don’t forget our pact – Hello will pay half a million for the pictures. Why did you change the script?”
Tracy took no notice but came over to the camera mirror.
Shoving her auburn curls out of her eyes, she spoke directly down the lens.
“I suppose you viewers believe all that guff about “no dragons are injured in the making of this programme,” do you? Well, that’s crap. Sure, the dragon that gets several feet of metal thrust into his side and rolls about groaning, smoking and dying is a special effect but think about the real dragon who comes out of his cave night after night. I tell you, I’ve spent the last 24 hours with Clarence (there was a competition to name the dragon) and what he had to tell me was disturbing. I smuggled in a video camera and this is the tape.” With that, Tracy set up a camera and pressed play.
“Shut down, play music – do something! She’ll wreck the show!” The assistant director was jumping about like a monkey with ants in his pants. The Director grinned.
“Chillax,” she said. “This will make the ten o clock news.”

“Tracy,” the dragon’s eyes were mournful, his green lids blinking furiously.
“My nerves just won’t take this any more. I can’t sleep, can’t eat – adrenalin constantly pumps round my system and I’ve lost so much weight.” Clarence did look pitifully thin, his vertebrae and ribs showing through his scales. The camera always puts on an extra five pounds so it was possible that he was worse than he looked.
“It’s this constant being charged at that does it,” Clarence continued. He shook his head and a few miserable puffs of smoke escaped from his jaws.
“You would think that I would have got used to it by now....” Tracy put a reassuring hand on his shivering neck.
“It’s your fight or flight mechanism, Clarry, it’s gone into overdrive and you can’t switch it off,” she said.
Clarence nodded. “I thought it was something like that. My grandmother had a breakdown when her husband kept hiding in a dark corner of the cave and then jumping out at her when she wasn’t expecting it. She ended up in the home for Damp Squib Dragons.” He shook his head. “Tracy, that was a terrible place. I don’t think.........” He gave a sob.
Tracy looked determined.
“Well, I don’t think the viewers want you to go to a place like that. Do you viewers?”
The phones were already ringing and it wasn’t with votes. The call centre staff were wildly improvising as they fended off irate callers complaining about Channel Fun’s treatment of Clarence.
“No, no, Clarence is not having a nervous breakdown, a mild virus has simply made him a bit depressed.”
“I’m sure that if the Priory take dragons, the Channel will spare no expense to make sure that Clarence gets the treatment he needs.”
The video was still running.
“What did the director tell you when you applied for the job?” Tracy asked.
Clarence gave a snort and a few flames flashed from his nostrils.
“Just a few personal appearances with lots of beautiful women. You’ll hardly have to light up at all. Some roars and flames and back to the truck for lunch.”
“And the truth?” asked Tracy.
“He didn’t mention the daily charges by mounted princes with flashing spears. I’m kept on a long chain here in the cave, with only a thick bimbo for company – have you tried discussing the finer points of Dragon lore with these vain, blonde wannabees? They have no conversation, don’t know how to cook cutlets of frozen princes, stink of fake tan.......” Clarence slumped his head on his front paws and sighed deeply.
“And the pay – what did the director promise you?” Clarence reared up and swung his head from side to side.
“One prince a day, a bag of gold and a cave in the Caribbean.”
“And what have you been paid so far?”
Clarence stared straight into the video lens.
“Apparently there is a shortage of fresh princes – tinned or frozen is all they provide and they are not even royal. Jumped up pop star hopefuls in the main – with HP sauce they are just about digestible but the racket they make in my stomach – that’s partly why I can’t sleep.”
Clarence gave a large burp and a cover version of “Last Christmas” could be heard loud and clear.
The Director giggled. “That was Boys with Voice,” she chuckled. “They sound better with a bit of Dragon insulation.”
In case you are wondering, there was a spin off programme for pop groups – the viewers voted them on to a recording contract or into the dragon’s jaws.
“And commercial break.” The screen changed to an advert for fire extinguishers and the staff in the control room looked anxiously at the Director. She leant back in her chair, hands behind her head. She had a manic look about her eyes.
“This could make television history,” she said. “Who knew that we had a talking dragon? Bring me the animals expert.”
Tracy’s video made the top slot on the late evening news. By the next morning Lorraine Kelly was interviewing a dragon whisperer called George and countless men in their thirties were claming to have been to public school with Clarence.
“ We just treated him like any other boy,” they said, “When he got a bit above himself we shoved his head down the lavatory – that doused his flames for a bit, I can tell you! Haw, haw!”
The production team met in a locked pod in the London Eye.
“What shall we do about the rest of the series? The viewers won’t stand for us “killing” a talking dragon. Gerard’s family are already getting hate mail and his mother had to take refuge in Tesco’s petrol station loo when an angry mob spotted her filling up. Gerard and the other “princes” were holed up in a safe house after gangs of teenagers waving plastic “My Little Dragons” threatened to overrun the Disney palace they were staying in. The Prime Minister had personally called the Director to ask about Clarence’s health. Even the BNP had withdrawn their bill calling for an end to asylum for reptiles. Zoos all over the country were employing security guards for their lizard enclosures, such was the public fury over the issue.
In the cave Tracy and Clarence were pouring over the emails in Clarence’s hotmail account. The majority were friendly and full of invitations to them both to be interviewed, to come for a break in the Galapagos Islands, to wear the latest spinal jewellery, to study for a Phd in Reptiles – The Way Forward. Tracy, a strict vegetarian, shivered at some of the emails from minor European royals offering choice morsels such as “my godfather, Prince Alexander, a lazy sod, is plump and juicy – shall we say 50 euros per kilo, 4950 for the whole carcass?” There were the usual ones from Nigeria too.
“You have won a prize in the Royal Lottery. To access your prize of a Royal Family, please send £2000 by Western Union to my account on the Isle of Man.”
Tracy was beginning to wonder if she had done the right thing. Clarence seemed unhappier than ever, his tail drooped and his eyes were going dull. He had retired to the furthest corner of the cave and spent most of the day licking his snout. If a customer had brought Clarence into her surgery in this state she would have had no hesitation in recommending that he be put down. When a creature has given up the will to live there is nothing that medicine can do.
Tracy racked her brain for a solution. What had they said at Vet School about anxiety in creatures? You have to make it clear that they do not have responsibility for human beings. That was it! Tracy came over to the camera.
“I want to speak to the Director of Channel Fun,” she said.

The new format for the programme went down a storm. After a spa holiday at the top of a volcano in South America, Clarence, his scales now green and shiny again, appeared on the TV reclining in a much improved cave. This time, contestants on “CAVE EXCHANGE” fought to the death for the opportunity to spend a week in the cave looking after Clarence, cataloguing his new library of Dragon Lore, searching out deposed royal dynasties and making interesting conversation over absinthe and peppermint cocktails. Viewers voted for the contestants that they thought Clarence liked best.

2009-09-15T01:54:00.000-07:00

End of term

It was hell sitting there in the green twilight of the marquee, fidgeting on a hard folding chair, trying not to mind about the nausea and the sweat breaking out on my forehead. I’d tried so hard. My dress was beautiful, just the colour to bring out the indigo of my eyes, my hair glossy and styled. I had had such high hopes that summer day. It would be fun, I had decided. I knew a few of the parents. I knew a few of the girls. I had had a few pleasant experiences with some of the staff at the parents day. What could go wrong?
Well, first off, there’s nobody to sit beside. Where are Tiggy’s classmates’ parents? There is just a sea of strangers. And what strangers. They just ooze money and confidence. Jaeger, Karen Millen, LK Bennett. Hair expertly coloured and stunningly cut. Men in bespoke suits. Everybody slightly suntanned. And they all know each other. All around me people are smiling and crying out greetings, giving each other mwaw mwaw kisses. I could be invisible. I shrink further and further into the uncomfortable chair. I bury my head in the prizegiving programme. All the usual scholars gathering heaps of awards. The weird school song in Latin with the tune that nobody can remember from one year to the next.
At last the platform party arrives and we are all united as we stand up for them. I can relax while the Headmaster reads out the longwinded report of the school year. The speaker might be entertaining. Oh, God, the Headmaster is making Tory jokes and everyone except me is laughing. I really do not belong here and I hate them all. Soon I will feel so small that I will be able to crawl out of here like a woodlouse.
Something in me snaps. This is not on. Why do I feel like this? Why am I so ashamed? I have done nothing wrong. I have done nothing. They have all made it. They are successful. They are stinking rich. I am a single parent, living in a shitty little flat with a part time job, no pension and no prospects. And whose fault is that? I am getting hotter. My heart is racing. This has got to stop. I am a writer. I write. That is what I do. I have been published. I have. It is okay that it was in My Weekly. Lots of people read and enjoy My Weekly. I don’t care if it is Orange Bag fiction (for speedy recycling). For a few minutes I have entertained – what is the circulation of My Weekly anyway? – lots of people. Hah! I’ll show them.
And just how exactly will I show them? Write a bloody good blockbuster, that’s what I’ll do. Bet JK Rowling doesn’t feel like this at her daughter’s prizegiving. I can feel my spine straightening, my head is closer to the roof of the marquee. My breathing is steadier and I’ve stopped sweating. The speaker is not very entertaining but who cares. I am covering the programme with notes for my opus magnus.

2009-09-13T07:25:00.000-07:00

Dangerous Dancing

Audrey Smith went to the loo in Starbucks for the third time in twenty minutes. Why, oh why had she set off so early? She looked at her watch. Still at least ten minutes before her class started. She peeked into her carrier bag and couldn’t help smiling. Her gold high heeled sandals were a huge extravagance but they fitted like gloves and were as light as a feather on her feet. She had been so tempted by the floaty grey chiffon dress in Jenners Sale but now that she was paying for a private lesson, she couldn’t afford it. Audrey tried unsuccessfully to quell the butterflies in her stomach. She had only seen a photo of Rodrigo the star tango performer, in which he looked every inch a South American aristocrat. Tall, dark and with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
Audrey had recently taken up the Argentine Tango. It was so many years since she had gone out dancing that she didn’t want to make a fool of herself at a disco or club. Also she wanted to dance with someone. One evening her friend, Jill, had brought round that video – “Take the Lead” with Antonio Banderas. Audrey watched spellbound as Antonio demonstrated a breathtakingly sexy tango with a beautiful tall blonde.
For the next few weeks, Audrey had been unable to get the image of the two strutting, entwining, embracing dancers out of her head. She began tossing her head in a contemptuous way every time she passed the bathroom mirror, wishing that she was taller, slimmer and blonder. She started listening to Tango Radio and would sway and strut across her tiny sittingroom. It was when she was clicking on Tango Radio that she came across a link to The Galashiels Tango Society. In Galashiels? Audrey could not believe it. But, yes and there was a list of classes – including one that was free! So, shaking like a leaf and wondering what she was thinking of, Audrey found herself in Galashiels Community Hall waiting for the free class to begin.
There were about a dozen other people there.
“Is this your first time?” Another middle aged woman smiled at Audrey and bent to fasten the straps on her high heels.
Audrey nodded. “I must be mad,” she said. The woman straightened up and held out her hand.
“I’m Maisie. I’ve only been coming a few weeks. Don’t worry about them, they’re from the local ballet class and they’re just showing off.” Audrey sighed with relief as she had just seen two tall teenage girls doing various professional looking calf and ankle stretching exercises in a corner of the room. She was surprised at the number of young men attending. None of them looked like candidates for the tango but then, she thought ruefully catching sight of herself in the glass window, neither did she. Maisie was nudging her.
“Here comes teacher!” Audrey looked up eagerly as a short, plump man in black t-shirt and trousers strode into the room. The teenagers flurried towards him and a couple of the young men greeted him with a high five.
“Right, welcome everyone. I’m Edward. I take this class every Friday. It’s free and you can come back as often as you want. Anybody new, this week?”
Blushing furiously, Audrey raised her hand. A couple of other people also shuffled their feet and admitted their own inexperience.
“Right, into a circle and we’ll begin. Don’t worry about partners just now, I’ll do a wee demo and then you can try a few steps. Tango is really about walking. If you can walk forwards, backwards and sideways you can dance tango.” As he spoke, Edward demonstrated. Yes, he was walking but with such proud posture, poise and confidence that Audrey could have sworn that he lost about half a stone in front of her very eyes.
“Now, then get into pairs. Decide who is going to lead and who is going to be a follower. Before she had time to be anxious, Maisie had grabbed her by the hand and whispered in her ear.
“I’ll lead since it’s your first time. Some weeks there are lots of men, other times we girlies have to dance with each other. Put your hands up on my shoulders. That’s right.” Audrey couldn’t decide whether to be glad that she didn’t have to get really close to Maisie or to be disappointed that they were not practising the lovely tango embrace. The first chords of the music boomed into the room and suddenly they were all on the move. Maisie was surprisingly confident and propelled Audrey expertly round the room, avoiding the shufflers and the completely dead stopped couples. Then the music ended and Edward instructed the followers to move round one place in the circle. Audrey found herself opposite a bespectacled blonde young man with a bemused expression.
“Bit stressful this, isn’t it? I’m Jay.”
When the music started Jay wiggled from side to side for several minutes before lunging forward so suddenly that Audrey had to whisk her right foot away before he trod on it, nearly falling over as she retreated. This did not put Jay off at all and he lunged round the room with Audrey holding on for dear life and saying “sorry” and “so sorry” every time Jay backed her into one of the other couples.
At the end of the hour, after a variety of partners of varied ability and skill, Audrey was breathless and thrilled. She loved the music, the swish of soles on the floor, the seriousness of the whole thing. Maisie bounced up to her.
“Are you staying for the milonga party - you’ll get to meet the real tango dancers – great fun.” Audrey noticed that the room was filling up with chattering people. If the class had been house sparrows, these dancers arriving for the milonga were like birds of paradise. The women all wore glittery strappy sandals and low cut, backless dresses, while the men were in black tops and bottoms or well tailored black suits with spanking white shirts. They greeted each other with kisses on both cheeks and as the volume of the music increased took to the floor with glamour and glee. All at once the chattering and laughing stilled. The men drew themselves up beyond their height, the women leant in towards them, head slightly bent. As each couple began to dance Audrey felt as though she had glimpsed something terribly intimate, daring, glamorous and dangerous. Suddenly, she needed to get some fresh air, grabbed her coat and bag and ran out to the street. On the bus home, she kept her head down, scared that people would notice the turmoil that raged inside her.
“Jill, it was wonderful – I felt as though I had been reborn!” Jill stirred her coffee and raised her eyebrows at her normally level headed friend.
“You liked it then?” Three cups of coffee later, Jill knew most of the finer points of tango and was wondering if Audrey had taken to alcohol as well as dance.
Certainly Audrey was floating. She took the bus up to Edinburgh and ransacked the music library for every tape or video of Argentine tango in stock. She could hardly wait until the next Friday. A few weeks later she still hadn’t plucked up the courage to stay for more than the first few minutes of the milonga. She had heard a tango dancer saying that as soon as you started a dance with someone new, you knew immediately if it was going to be a good tango. Audrey couldn’t bear the thought of not being good enough.
One evening there was a particular buzz at the class. Maisie rushed over almost too excited to get the words out.
“Rodrigo Perez is going to be in Galashiels next week – I can’t wait to book my lesson. He is so-oo gorgeous. They say that dancing with him is,” Maisie lowered her eyes and her voice and whispered:”orgasmic”. Maisie thrust a leaflet into Audrey’s hands and with shining eyes sank down on a chair.
Audrey perused the leaflet. She had to get a lesson with this man. From the photograph on the cover his eyes seemed to bore into her. He would be the one that helped her go from moderate tango dancer to someone sexy, glamorous and dangerous.
And now here she was at the private studio, her trembling hands struggling to do up her new shoes. She smoothed down her black skirt and ran her hands carefully over her newly done hair. The door opened. Audrey looked up.
“Hi, Audrey. Good to see you. I’ll just get us a glass of water.” Audrey frowned. What was Edward doing here? Edward returned with two large pint glasses of iced water. He clicked on his laptop and the sound of tango filled the studio. Edward held out his arms to Audrey.
“Em,, Edward, I’ve booked a lesson with Rodrigo........” Edward’s arms fell to his side and he let out a despairing sigh.
“Oh, God. This is the third time I have had to do this today. Rodrigo isn’t coming. He has had to fill in for another dancer in a big show in London.. I’m having to take his lessons for him. It’s not doing my ego any good, I can tell you. One woman stopped half way through the lesson and one of them flatly refused to even start. I wouldn’t have minded so much, but I’m not even charging for these lessons.” Edward looked so dismayed and unlike his usual confident self that Audrey pulled herself together.
“Let’s start then, shall we?”
Edward smiled like a man reprieved from execution and the lesson began.
“Right, first the embrace. I need to know that you are there, really there and with me. Put your arm right round so it is touching my back just above my shoulder blades. Good. Other hand in a loose hand clasp. Okay, so close at the left side and open at the right. A bit closer. Perfect.”
And it was. Audrey had never felt so safe. She knew immediately that Edward would steer her into safe waters. The more they danced the more her confidence grew until she was pivoting and doing oches as well as those beautiful girls at the Milonga. The hour went far too quickly and Audrey could hardly bear to stop for a long cold drink after each set. Dancing with Edward was just like that comforting feeling when you get your pillow and your duvet curled around you so no draughts can get through. As the lesson progressed Edward made his steps bolder and more complex and to her delight Audrey was able to follow him perfectly. Each time she succeeded at a new pattern, Edward murmured into her hair, “Well done, Audrey, good, perfect.” He smelt of soap and ironed shirt. Audrey could feel his muscles through the cloth on his shoulders. When she glanced at his face it had on it the most lovely, slightly melancholy expression which enobled his ordinary face.
It was over. They were drinking the last few drops of water. Audrey’s eyes were sparkling and she felt more alive than she had for years.
Edward put his glass down and frowned at her. “You know, Audrey, you have no idea what it is like to dance with a real woman. These young girls, they think so much about how they look on the outside that they never make contact with the heart of the tango. Then as soon as they think they have mastered the steps they fly off and dance with their young men but their tangos have no soul. Audrey, I know that I am not Rodrigo. I’m Edward Macdonald from Galashiels. Despite that, do you think you would consider coming as my partner to the Winter Tango Ball? You see, I’ve been hoping that you might stay for one of the Friday night milongas but you never did.................”
Audrey looked at the floor. She had not thought she could possibly compete with all those pretty young things. She didn’t like to think how much her imagination had run away with her when she was fantasising about Rodrigo when all the time, her perfect partner was right here.
Edward sighed and moved to put on his jacket.“No, I didn’t think........”
Audrey took his hand. “This Winter Tango Ball – would a floaty grey chiffon dress be a suitable outfit?”

MA Creative Writing Edinburgh Napier University

2009-09-13T07:16:00.000-07:00

Yahoo! Have finally started at Napier with 23 other writing geniuses! The campus is beautiful, set on a hill above Edinburgh with lawns and woodland and walks and incredible views to the sea. Our course directors and the Reader in Residence have tried manfully to get us tired and emotional at their own expense and I have had the one and only free lunch that I will get all year. This merely by attending a workshop where I met publishing, journalism, creative advertising and interdisciplinary design students. We had to mingle and learn how to set useful goals. Our poster was the best.

I have resuscitated this blog because my website was lost when Freeserve became Orange and I keep being asked where people can see my stuff..................so here goes. I will put up pieces of work here from time to time. Feel free to email me with any constructive comments. Use the email address at the top of the page.

Speak to you soon!
Alison

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2005-09-26T13:55:00.000-07:00

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2005-09-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

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2005-09-23T11:59:00.000-07:00

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2005-09-23T11:55:00.000-07:00

well, hello there!
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Yoga for the Brain

2005-08-16T13:37:00.000-07:00

YOGA FOR THE BRAIN – Reflective Writing

When I have a problem that I can’t solve through negotiation, discussion or talking, I go to my desk and I write about it. Sometimes the writing takes the form of a splurge and it is enough to have simply let off steam on the page. More often it becomes a way of looking at the problem with greater detachment. As I write different ideas occur to me and they help me get a different perspective on my problem.

One time when I was absolutely stuck, forty five pages into a novel, I decided to write to Jane Austen about my problem. I asked her if she had had trouble with Mr Darcy and also asked her why Mr Bingley’s sisters were so poisonous. Fairly quickly, the message came back “motive”. I realised that I needed to sort out my characters’ motives.

I often write about the rows that I have with my teenage daughter and after a bit of moaning and groaning I usually come to what it is that really annoys me – often something different to the thing we have been bellowing at each other about.

One of my favourite exercises is writing about myself in the future as though it were the present. This helps me to decide what I need to do in order to reach the future situation.

Another good exercise is when I ask myself questions about a particular problem or situation. For example I have bi-polar disorder and it can be helpful to write about this in terms of something different.
E.G. If my bi-polar disorder were an animal it would be a tiger. When it is asleep, it is the depressive bit and when it is hunting it is the manic bit. When the tiger is simply walking around or hanging up a tree, it is the period of stability, full of energy and potential but relaxed as well.

I wish that I had known about another exercise when I was really depressed. I could have written about what my life would be like when I was better. It would have helped me to see the effect that my depression had on different aspects of my life and might have helped me to ask for support to improve those aspects.
E.G. I know that I was able to feel better if I went to a live performance at the theatre but I was incapable of booking tickets – so I could have asked someone to do that for me.

Another good way to get a bit of detachment from an unpleasant situation is to write about it in detail using all five senses. Concentrating on what you smelt, tasted, heard, saw and touched can help to defuse strong feelings. If you write about the same situation several times, each time using creative writing techniques to edit and re-write it can reduce stress levels considerably.

These are simple writing exercises that I can do anytime, anywhere (I always carry a notebook and pen!) and they really do work.

I have designed a course, YOGA FOR THE BRAIN which introduces these and other techniques.

2005-06-04T05:33:00.000-07:00

Being fruitful!
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Writing Saved My Life

2005-06-03T14:05:00.000-07:00

“Writing Saved My Life.”

The first thing that you notice about Alison Summers is the twinkle in her eye that promises fun and frolics. It was not always so easy for Summers to twinkle however. Ten years ago, after a difficult divorce and custody battle, Summers found herself living with her four year old daughter in a small, top floor flat on benefits. The bi-polar disorder that had reared its head on and off since her late twenties reappeared with a vengeance and for several years Summers fought her instinct to alternately cower under the bedclothes and rule the world by concentrating on parenting and joining a self-help group, Co-Counselling in Scotland. Despite periods of black depression when Summers used to wake up crying and have to drag herself out of bed, she joined Parent Link (now called Parenting Matters) and began to write articles for their newsletter. Through her contact with Co-Counselling In Scotland, Summers became familiar with alternative health therapies and tried various ones, holographic repatterning, aromatherapy and reiki in an effort to shift her despair.

“I was lucky,” says Summers, “I had lots of support. My GP used to look me in the eyes and say firmly “You know, you will get better”, I had a lovely CPN who appreciated my coffee and said that I ought to write articles about depression for magazines and my Mum used to come up on the bus all the way from the Borders,once a week and take me out for lunch.” There is no sign of the illness now as Summers talks enthusiastically about her company Wordstore Workshops.

“When I first started teaching Creative Writing in Adult Education, I noticed that although the class was not billed as being “therapeutic”, therapeutic things were happening all the time!” Summers talks of her students “transforming themselves” as the ten week course progressed. She noticed that students who really applied themselves to writing in a complex form such as a sonnet, not only gained confidence in their writing skills but also said that they felt as though they had released a long held burden and now felt able to move on in life. This echoed Summers’ own writing experience.

“When I was depressed I went to a group for people who were having difficulties. It was very informal, run by two sympathetic ladies, one a Norwegian occupational therapist, another a support worker from Outlook who dispensed coffee and biscuits and kept up a cheerful banter for an hour and a half, quite unabashed by the silence of the group. One day they came in with the adult education programme for the summer and forced each of us to agree to attend one class.” Summers chose to go to a Creative Writing class in a local school. Her eyes sparkle as she remembers the first session.

“It was run by a really nice chap who was in the middle of writing his first novel. There were only half a dozen of us, a couple of young housewives, me, and an elderly man. The tutor was so positive – he found something good to say about all of our writing. He had brilliant ideas for stimulating us into writing. One day he asked us to bring in an object to inspire us. One girl brought in a really tacky garden gnome, lying on his elbow and grinning in a jaunty way. It was a truly awful thing.” Summers chuckles as she remembers.

“Anyway, I started writing about the gnome as though it had strayed into a secretarial employment agency – I had just had a rather humiliating experience in one when my typing and wordprocessing tests had gone horribly wrong and the recruiting lady had looked down her nose at me – so I made up a story where the gnome was told off for sitting on the floor and wearing too much lipstick!” ( This story eventually turned into a short story, “Feathers") Summers grins broadly.
“The class and the tutor loved it – they roared with laughter and clapped. I left the class floating and after that, writing played a huge part in my recovery from depression.”

Summers went on to run a creative writing group for Survivors’ Poetry where she found that her counselling skills were stretched to the limit by group members who insisted on complete silence when they were writing, who arrived at classes wearing only one shoe and one who warned the group that if any of them swore he would involuntarily hit them.

She found that developing sensitive antennae at Survivors’ Poetry stood her in good stead when she joined Edinburgh Council’s team of adult education tutors.
“I knew both from my time at Survivors’ Poetry and from my own experience as a student in writing classes that putting pen to paper has a way of quickly bringing up “stuff” that has been long buried. Even if we control our own writing carefully, often other people’s pieces can touch us in places we didn’t know existed.” Summers explains how she always warns students that “writing reaches the parts other arts don’t” and she is as comfortable with students that weep in class as she was encouraged by the laughter in that first class many years ago.

“The tears that are wept in writing classes are healing tears.” Summers says firmly.
“They have a different chemical composition to tears of anger or frustration.”
Fascinated by the effect that writing had upon herself and her students, Summers researched the subject of therapeutic writing and found that it had been used in situations from dementia to bereavement in order to help with acceptance and moving on.
“I read everything about therapeutic writing that I could lay my hands on,” says Summers, “and when I found out that crafting a piece of writing actually improved people’s immune systems, I decided that I had to use my writing skills and teaching experience to improve people’s lives.” She frowns as she realises how pompous she sounds. “Actually, I needed a reason to keep on writing and teaching when I could have got a “proper” job.” Summoned to an interview at the job Centre, Summers noticed a leaflet offering support for single parents wanting to set up their own business. She suggested to the interviewer that perhaps she could set up her own business running creative writing workshops. Noticing that the interviewer seemed underwhelmed by this idea she quickly explained the benefits of therapeutic writing and as she talked a vision of how GP’s surgeries could use her services to help patients with depression unfolded as she talked. The interviewer became enthusiastic, registered Summers for the course and Wordstore Workshops, Writing Workshops for Health and Happiness, Summers company was born.

Welcome to Wordstoreworkshops!

2005-06-03T12:41:00.000-07:00

My name is Alison Summers. I am a writer and tutor. I set up my company Wordstore Workshops in March 2004.

For several years I have been interested in the link between creative writing and improvement in health. I found that writing played a large part in my recovery from chronic clinical depression. In the course of teaching adults creative writing I noticed that writing a sonnet about a long buried grief could produce the mourning that was long overdue. I am keen to introduce creative writing to organisations who are familiar with other stress relieving techniques such as yoga. For me writing is yoga for the mind and the psyche. How can you know what you think until you see what you write? This is the huge advantage of writing over talking therapies! I am not a therapist but the writing is therapeutic.

For details of workshops please contact me:

Alison Summers

alisonjmsummers@hotmail.co.uk