Daniel's Arabian Nights pic

This Saturday I’m heading to the Grant Bradley Gallery in Bristol. There’s an interesting photography event happening there from 10am till 4pm, and while I’m too shy to take part, I’d love to see what unfolds.

The man behind it is Daniel Moncur-Sime, a photographer I’ve been doing a bit of PR work for recently. He has a background in commercial and fashion photography, and is now branching out into art, capturing exuberant explosions of movement and colour with the help of models with backgrounds in ballet.

This Saturday he’s putting out an open call to anyone who fancies a chance to become part of the show – all you need to do is turn up with an imaginative outfit (anything from a clown costume to a fabulous gown to, erm, your PJs) and be prepared to move around for the camera.

I think Daniel’s hoping for some grace and elegance, but he’ll be happy anything with a bit of energy behind it. Juggling, dancing, hop-scotch and Moonwalking will all be welcomed – I have a hula hoop anyone’s welcome to borrow. Just don’t make me take part. As a writer I’m there as a voyeur, not a performer!

As a writer I’ve been warned against making too much use of coincidence as a plot device. Early drafts of my stories and novels quite often have characters fortuitously coming across the one piece of information or meeting the one person they needed to move things forward.

I think it’s partly because I see my own life as a series of coincidences. I always have to make sure that in the next draft I make the main character more active, less wafty so that they choose events rather than events choosing them.

But in real life, coincidences often crop up in ways that would never work in a piece of fiction.

Take yesterday, for example. Yesterday afternoon I had the excitement of going to the diabetic clinic to be fitted with a blood testing monitor that will take continuous readings for three days and then, hopefully, present me with a graph to let me know what my body gets up to when I’m not paying attention. Could be interesting!

The weird thing was that while I was waiting for the diabetic specialist nurse to see me I could hear a baby crying and I thought to myself, How funny, all babies sound just like my nephew. I suppose all babies sound the same.

Then when I went into my appointment, the nurse said, “Did you know your sister’s here seeing the other nurse?”

So it was my nephew!

I managed to get linked up to the monitor in time to catch my sis before she left and we went for a coffee afterwards, which was nice as we hadn’t caught up since Christmas. I suppose there are some curious advantages to both of us having diabetes.

The nurse seemed surprised that I hadn’t known she’d be there, but we don’t often discuss such boring things as diabetic appointments, so even if I’d seen her yesterday we probably wouldn’t have known we’d be at the hospital at the same time today.

My plot-lines may have a propensity for swinging from one coincidence to another, but one thing I do know is dialogue, and we have much more interesting things to talk about than that, at least, most of the time.

© J Darley

Unexpectedly, I got my wish. After lamenting the end of the Christmas break and return to reality, snow sailed in and brought most of the UK to a halt.

I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but if I’d known at that moment that I was to have a wish granted I might have chosen something a bit grander, more life changing, such as, ooh, I don’t know, a nice fat book deal.

The snow has been rather remarkable though. We southerners quail at a few flakes, buses and trains are cancelled, minor roads closed while ambulances howl endlessly along the bigger roads.

I had plans for every night last week, and all but one failed to happen, one because the bus I needed to take to reach a birthday party was cancelled, one because a friend lost her nerve about venturing out onto the ice, another because another friend came down with a cold and lost her nerve. The one that did take place had no excuse not to, as my hubla and I went to the house of our next-door-neighbour-but-one (next-door is a glaciers) for dinner. Even then, I almost slipped and fell, and wore a woolly hat for the two-second journey.

My cousins in Colorado would laugh at so much fuss for a few inches of snow, but I think it’s all about what you’re used to, and, according to the news, to how much grit your council has on standby (not much, it seems).

In desperation, I’ve headed out each day, and lost myself for an hour in the vast Victorian cemetery up the road. It made seem like an eerie place to go, but for the resting place of so many generations of dead people, it boasts more life than any local park. At this time of year the basking adder is hiding away, but there are still plenty of birds flitting from headstone to headstone, and holly and ivy runs more rampantly than on any Christmas card.

In the snow the cemetery was even more impressive than usual, with stone angels sporting fluffy white highlights and tombs encased in glittering shrouds.

With schools closed many local kids were exploring the woods that grow across the cemetery, and as I wandered through one morning, two bobbies marched towards me, each hailing me cheerily. What on earth could they have been guarding there?

Being amongst wildlife always seems to bring out the friendliness in people. While we strike past each other stony faced on the streets, we nod, smile and say hello in parks and, in this case, cemeteries. It’s as though being surrounded by trees prompts inherited memories of earlier times when people really did greet every person they met.

So, 2010 has begun and with it the return to reality. I’m already missing the joyful limbo-days of Christmas. As a freelancer, it’s the only time of year when I feel truly in sync with the rest of the world, as regularly 9-5.30s are forgotten and hours are suddenly rudderless and whim-focused.

In fact, it was pure heaven, with daylight hours devoted to long country walks and dusk-onwards to lounging by my parents open fireplace, tap-tapping away at my first event theatre-script. The fact my parents don’t have wifi was an unexpected delight, setting me free to concentrate on fiction writing without the distractions of emails, twitter, facebook and, um, EssentialWriters.com.

Once I returned home, the internet did holler for attention once more, but even then, with most media offices closed until yesterday, there was little to disturb my happy creativity.

I also managed to make three trips to the cinema in little over a week, and saw three excellent, very different, films.

The first was Nowhere Boy, the John Lennon story which could have been about any young lad with dreams of being a rock star. Sam Taylor-Wood’s vision of John was both beautiful and very real, and while she steered clear of too much Beatle-mania, the hints of what was to come gave the story a hint of a rosy ending without the Hollywood sheen that could so easily have tarnished the whole affair.

The second film was Where the Wild Things Are, a raucous reimagining of the children’s book by Maurice Sendak. With Dave Eggers and Spike Jonze taking the few words provided bySendak and transforming it into a full-length screenplay, the evocative pictures I remember from my childhood took on life and emotions.

Max, played by the fabulously named Max Records, is a desperately unhappy child dealing with the break up of his family, who runs away one night and breaks all kinds of health and safety rules by sailing off on a lake that transforms into a sea and washes him up on an unfamiliar shore. There he encounters a tribe of disconsolate monsters who make him their king on the proviso that he makes their sadness go away. It’s deeply moving, and definitely not one for kids.

The third film was James Cameron’s Avatar, which I was unsure about seeing, having heard that the storyline was beyond daft. However, the visual affects, aided by 3D glasses, are incredible, and to be honest I would have been happy to spend three hours simply exploring the planet of Pandora without a single event or story-arc.

The world imagined by James Cameron and created by Weta is beautiful, brutal, and utterly encompassing. Seen through the eyes of marine Jake Sully, it becomes even more astonishing as he knows no more than we do about the creatures and plants that surround him. Yes, there’s a bit of a mushy love-story, some tree-hugging stuff and lots of explosions, but really, for me, the planet itself is the attraction.

But now, sadly, it’s time to get back to reality, take off the 3D glasses and do some work.

I like to think I’m a relatively intelligent and organised person. I keep my receipts, file my invoices and generally keep an eye on my finances. So filling in my tax return should be a doddle, right?

A few weeks back I registered to complete it online, activated it and filled in half the pages, then, realising I wasn’t sure I was doing it right, saved all the pages and booked myself onto one of the Government’s free Self Assessment courses.

The course was excellent, and with so, reassured that I knew what I was doing I returned to the Government’s online gateway and logged in.

Only, I couldn’t find my way back into the Self Assessment section. In fact, the screen stated I didn’t have access to it and suggested I register for online services.

Which I thought I had already done.

Bewildered, I phone up the online helpdesk, who told me in no uncertain terms that I had clearly de-registered myself and needed to start again from scratch. I was almost in tears by this point, and politely asked how I could have managed that, to which they had no answer.

So, unable to do anything else, I reregistered and am now waiting for another activation code to reach me.

Only, I just received an email with the subject line “Please remember to complete your tax return.”

When I opened it up, it stated: “We note that you have not yet submitted the Self Assessment Tax Return that you started to complete using our online service. Please remember that you must submit your tax return on or before 31 January 2010.”

What?!? When I phoned them to find out what had happened to the form I’d begun to complete, they claimed it had never existed, and now they’re emailing me to ask why I haven’t finished completing it.

Well, the answer is probably because I was told it doesn’t exist.

Turns out it takes a lot more than intelligence and organisation to complete a tax return, especially when the Government who are asking me to do it seem hell-bent on making it as confusing as possible.

Government: 1; Judy: nil

I love this time of year. Despite the cold weather that nearly snapped my nose off when I went out earlier, there’s something about all the sparkle and shine, the bright smiles on shoppers faces (note: this was at 10 this morning - they’re probably a bit grumpier now), the decorated trees (ours is a glittery black faker bought in Woolworth’s closing down sale last December), and all those promising presents balanced beneath it.

Frankly, I’ve turned into an over-excited kid, and the soothing carols oozing in off Classic FM are only making me fizz harder.

Christmas bauble © Julian Cenkier

The one thing I usually miss at this time of year as a freelancer is the buzz of a pre-Christmas office. The world of publishing is slightly unusual in that it firmly shuts down from Christmas to New Year, so deadlines are crazy, everyone’s overworked, but no one’s complaining because they know they’re about to wallow in at least nine days off. Tins of fancy chocolate biscuits, mince pies and festive chocs do the rounds, and tinsel creates a cheery fire-hazard around computer monitors.

This year I’ve had the chance to appreciate it in full thanks to a few days subbing at a publishing house in Cheltenham, a mere 40-minute train ride from my house in Bristol. I’ve loved every moment of it, despite having to leave my house when it’s still dark and returning home when it’s dark again.

Cheltenham is a very pretty town that comes into its own at Christmas time. As www.britainexpress.com succinctly puts it: “The town is resplendent in Regency terraces of cream-white houses and wrought-iron railings.”

With lofty Christmas trees and tasteful fairy lights twinkling in each window, the town is even more elegant and enticing, with bright baubles and Advent candles adding to the glow.

Previously I’ve only ever been to Cheltenham when the literature festival is on, but now I think I’ll go there more often, and if the opportunity comes up to work there again, I won’t hesitate to say yes.

© Eric Feldman

When working as a freelance writer, there’s always the issue of balance. The issue between work and play, between home time and work time, between paying the gas bill and not paying the gas bill…

Working from home means that boundaries get blurred and I sometimes discover I’ve inadvertently worked a 12-hour day. Even when there’s no paying work available (which happens more often than I’d like!), there’s always EssentialWriters.com to focus on, or the art book I’m collaborating on, or the novel I’m mid-way through, or the many proposals to send out for the novel I’ve completed.

Oh, and then there are the endless pitching of ideas to magazines and websites, and short stories to write and enter for writing competitions or submit to literary mags, all of which takes time and effort, but in chunks so small that they’re akin to erosion. Before you know it, the entire day is gone and the cliff has collapsed.

But the finest balance to master is that with regards to the features that pay well, and the features with benefits. For example, in the past two weeks I’ve received two commissions, both of which pay but on vastly different scales.

One was on a subject I knew nothing about, which required lots of research and constant communication with specialists in Scandinavia. I knew I’d learn masses through writing it, and the pay was well over £200. I accepted the commission.

The second, however, paid well under £100, but was on a subject I knew well – pampering – and would involve research that included an afternoon at a spa being gently massaged into semi-consciousness. Mwahhh…

So half the money, but also half the effort plus a heavenly afternoon I would never have felt justified in paying for myself. I accepted that commission too.

It’s the same with travel writing. It’s a genre that very rarely pays well, but results in some fabulous trips to places I might never otherwise have seen.

So it’s always about balance and money is only a small part of the equation. Apart, of course, from the opinion of the gasman.

A couple of weeks ago I went to a PGC networking event at Holland House Hotel in Bristol.

Previously I’ve only ever attended networking events aimed specifically at journalists, and it was interesting to meet so many people from so many different sectors, all with tips and advice to share.

One of the first things I learnt was the value of introducing what you can offer, rather than your name, rank and number. So instead of saying: “Hi, I’m Judy, I’m a freelance writer and editor, and I write for all sorts of websites and magazines…” I found myself listening to other people talking about the websites they build and then saying: “That’s very interesting. How do you gain content for the sites? Because that’s the kind of thing I do…”

After the preliminary mingle we were ushered through to the main room, where a panel was ready to discuss pressing issues with us. Rather marvelously this began with Colin Butcher, the event organiser, asking us what we wanted covered, personalising it to our requirements.

The main concern was the financial challenges, or as one attendee called it, the need for ‘eating strategies.’ We were asked to consider how we find work, how we market ourselves and how we leverage our networks. LinkedIn was flagged up as a crucial tool, and made me vow to update my profile at the first opportunity.

One delegate reminded us that: “You are your brand. It’s how you dress, how you speak, the business cards you give out.”

I wriggled with shame when it was pointed out that the freebie business cards I’d found online were tantamount to saying you don’t think your brand is worth paying for. It was a good point, though, and I certainly agree that you need to present a professional image if you want people to see you as a professional, regardless of your field.

As social network sites such as LinkedIn and Twitter were discussed, suggestions began to fly, ranging from the importance of getting involved with professional forums to ensuring our CVs are laden with keywords.

It was encouraging to hear that all kinds of freelancers are finding it challenging at the moment, and to meet people with the same concerns. I gleaned lots of valuable tips about making connections with people, and some of them may even lead to paying work.

The descent begins...

I have the most astonishing bruises on my thighs – crimson, green and purple swirls so decorative they rival my hubla’s many tattoos.

Yesterday I was in Italy, coming to the end of a four day trip to Brescia, Lombardy. The representative from the tourist office took me to see the castle of Brescia and we arrived just as an excited group of people turned up to take one of their special speleological tours beneath the edifice.

I asked to take photos of them as they prepared to descend down a narrow hole like a well, and as I snapped away I must have looked suitably envious, as the organisers soon had me strapped into a harness and being lowered into the castle’s underbelly!

Caving was once a favourite pastime of my sister’s but I’ve never tried it before. Roberta Possi, one of the key volunteer speologists who guide the groups, lead me through a few caves into a vast cavern where stalactites reached spindly fingers towards the floor and our head-lamps illuminated the pale gleaming rock walls.

“Grande,” I breathed.

“Grandissimo,” she agreed, beaming.

Then it was time for me to ascend, and that’s when the real challenge began. The last time I climbed a rope ladder was when I was a small child, and that one was around three metres long and led into the branches of our tree-house.

The rope ladder I had to climb out of the castle’s underbelly was a cold metal and mud-covered 13-metre endurance test. As I was wearing my smartest jeans and best leather boots (with no grips whatsoever – well, I thought I was going for a genteel stroll around Italy!), every rung was a struggle but I finally made it to the top, mud-splattered, with cuts on my hands, and a smile on my face.

In the face of an opportunity for an unexpected adventure, who would say no? My jeans will recover, and so, given time, will my thighs.

© Marcel Iordan

It’s been a weekend of wind, rain and art. As the gales whipped the deluge into stinging, lashing whips, the artists in my neighbourhood opened their houses up to the public.

Outside each home a pile of sodden brollies lay heaped like broken flowers; an abstract sculpture, while we trod patterns of water into carpets and across bare floorboards.

From the walls hung colourfully painted canvas blocks, or shelves of lovingly stitched and knitted skulls, paper beetles, necklaces strung with buttons, and, in one extraordinary living room, large statues made from carefully selected rocks, pinned together to exude movement in the guise of people dancing, horse-riding, balancing on a single stone hand.

Art trails are among the best treasure hunts of our age, taking us into private homes to catch glimpses of private lives. The artists who sell well are the savvy ones, the friendly ones, who understand the value of a few smaller, cheaper wares and a warm smile. When I find I like the artist as an individual, I find myself yearning to buy their most glorious works, regardless of price.

But the ones who imprinted themselves on my mind are those who embodied their art in some way. I’ll never forget the kitchen and living room transformed into an exuberant 1950’s teashop, selling extravagantly decorated cupcakes and oodles of atmosphere sold by ladies in vintage print dresses and wigs crammed with pink curlers. We bought jam from them and birthday cards, and paused to eat cake in a noisy, cosy corner.

Likewise, I’ll remember the photographer who had managed to capture an underground car park in such a way that each shot transformed it into a scene of serenity, light and beauty.

People who view the world differently should be celebrated, and if they can share that view of the world, so much the better.