It’s hard to write this and feel that there is anything positive to say. What positive can you take away from a life cut too short by a brutal disease?
I’m not even sure why I’m quite as cut up as I am. I didn’t know Scott, not personally. I know people who knew him, he could have been any one of my friends. Maybe that’s why it hurts, why so many people are touched by his music and his death. He could have been any one of us. He wrote about each of us, not just the surface things- the casual sex, the drink and drugs, the parties, the weather, the things that mark out normal Scottish lives. It was they way he got beneath our skins, because what was beneath his is beneath ours. The anxiety, the awkwardness, the constant presence of thoughts darker than the Scottish winters.
Maybe I’m cut up because his lyrics run through my own work. MAybe not directly but Frightened Rabbit have been a constant muse. The feelings their songs bring me make their way into my own work. If I’m stuck they would be one of the first bands I put on to bring me home, to take me back to what I remember, what I love and what I hate about home.
Maybe I’m cut up because it’s another fail on the system, on the way we treat mental health, and the way we treat people with mental illness.
Maybe I’m cut up because selfishly, I won’t ever see them live now. I’ll never get to shout along with the crowd, pouring out my own landslide of rocks and hopes and fears.
Maybe it’s because everytime depression takes another of us I have the voice in the back of my head that knows why a person would want to end their life. Because that voice, the voice which is nothing but a disease, whispers a little too loudly to me sometimes too.
But maybe that’s also my positive here, the thing I’m taking away. Because I know that voice and when it claims another of us it gives me the strength to face it and tell it to go fuck itself. It won’t take me. And I will damn well fight to make sure it is silenced in as many people as I can reach in my work.
So fuck you depression. Fuck you mental illness.
While I’m alive, I’ll make tiny changes to earth.
Goodbye Scott. Hope it’s easier on the other side.
I’ve shamefully neglected this blog for the last few months. There’s no reasons, other than life and work and writing lots.
So here’s an update:
- The Lucky Weasel is now out at readers. (Which means good trusted people are tearing it to shreds then helping me put it back together so that it’s better). This used to scare me senseless. I still remember sending the first 50 pages of The Remote Part to Jenn Coryell, of @jennsbooks and wondering why the hell anyone would put themselves through this torture, exposing themselves to criticism and judgement like that. In the end it was the best thing I could have ever done and Jenn is one of my most trusted writing friends.
Critiquing is now one of my favourite parts of the process. Nothing helps a book come along like good Critique Partners and readers who won’t bullshit you and who can push everything to the next level. It’s even better when the make fun wordles for you like this one by April Benedetti:
- I should NEVER HAVE PUT THE WORD LUCKY IN THE TITLE. This was a major fail on my part. It’s been far from lucky. Twice it got eaten by computer death. But twice I was sensible enough to make sure it was backed up. Moral of the story, kids: back up your work!
- I’ve started work on a new novel which consists of the holy trinity of stuff people like just now: Craft Beer, Scotland and Magic.
Expect more posts about beer and Scotland soon. Or soon-ish. Let’s be realistic here.
It’s been over a week since I last managed to put words on paper for the WIP. It’s stuck. I feel like it’s a boat on a sandbank, looking over at Dundee, just waiting on the tide to come in and carry it back to shore. And while we are waiting on the water I’m beating off a particularly feisty seal that wants to eat the manuscript and probably my lunch. Good times.
So what does a writer do while waiting on the tide and beating off seals? I can’t speak for the rest of them. I’m sure everyone has their own way to get the writing juju back. The husband suggested I drink but I’m guessing turning up for the school run half-cut would lead to one of those social services affairs. Instead I’ve turned back to the music. It has always served me well in the past. When the words get lost I turn to someone else’s to help weave the pictures in my head.
And this book being set in Dundee I turned back to the most Dundonian of all musicians (go on, disagree. I dare you. I’d fight this point to the death): Michael Marra. His voice (both literal and figurative) are so inherently of the city that it’s helping return me to my roots, and to the roots of this book. Something that celebrates Dundee and her people.
I’m guessing most of you aren’t familiar with Michael Marra. His work is now digitalised and available on Spotify. It’s worth a listen. Here’s one with subtitles for the beginners: All Will Be Well- Michael Marra
(And yes, this entire post was me avoiding doing some actual writing.)
Well, this is exciting. It’s the first time I get to do this. But, since it’s my first time, it’s possibly yours too. So I’ll answer your questions.
What’s a Cover Reveal? What’s this all about anyway?
It’s that exciting moment when a writer gets to see what their new book is going to look like and show it off to the world. What’s not to be excited about there? Let’s face it, next to who is going to play your MC in the Oscar-winning adaptation, what your book cover is going to look like is a top writer daydream. AND NOW IT’S REALITY.
Why are you excited, Clare? This isn’t your book?
No. But it’s written by my awesome agency-mate Emily R. King who not only writes great books but is from Canada and also owns a cantankerous cat.
It’s also about supporting the community. Being able to get the word out for fellow writerly types is important. And fun. Because look at this gorgeous book!
The Hundredth Queen
Emily R. King
Published by: Skyscape
Publication date: June 1st 2017
Genres: Fantasy, Young Adult
As an orphan ward of the Sisterhood, eighteen-year-old Kalinda is destined for nothing more than a life of seclusion and prayer. Plagued by fevers, she’s an unlikely candidate for even a servant’s position, let alone a courtesan or wife. Her sole dream is to continue living in peace in the Sisterhood’s mountain temple.
But a visit from the tyrant Rajah Tarek disrupts Kalinda’s life. Within hours, she is ripped from the comfort of her home, set on a desert trek, and ordered to fight for her place among the rajah’s ninety-nine wives and numerous courtesans. Her only solace comes in the company of her guard, the stoic but kind Captain Deven Naik.
Faced with the danger of a tournament to the death—and her growing affection for Deven—Kalinda’s only hope for escape lies in an arcane, forbidden power that’s buried within her.
In Emily R. King’s thrilling fantasy debut, an orphan girl blossoms into a warrior, summoning courage and confidence in her fearless quest to upend tradition, overthrow an empire, and reclaim her life as her own.
Emily R. King is a reader of everything and a writer of fantasy. Born in Canada and raised in the USA, she has perfected the use of “eh” and “y’all” and uses both interchangeably. Shark advocate, consumer of gummy bears, and islander at heart, Emily’s greatest interests are her four children. She’s a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and an active participant in her local writers’ community. She lives in Northern Utah with her family and their cantankerous cat.
It’s that time of year again. Jackie-time.
Now. Before we go any further. I KNOW. I think we’ve already established the fact that I’m pro-Indy. So, I KNOW we have issues with the Beeb.
But this isn’t about politics (for once). Or writing. This is about the majestic wonder of Jackie Bird. Say what you like about The BBC. Jackie is fantastic.
Hogmanay would not be Hogmanay without her. Even this guy agrees:
But Jackie is more than just a sparkling outfit and an even more sparkly smile:
Happy New Year everyone. May 2017 be massively better than 2016.
It never struck me as strange, growing up, that smack in the city centre of Dundee there is a graveyard. But then I also grew up next to an undertaker so I was used to the idea of dead people from an early age. When you think about it, it’s an odd thing, that right in the middle of town there’s an ancient burial ground. There’s a few, actually, but the others are attached to churches, which always makes them seem more proper. The Howff, on the other hand sits across the road from the DC Thomson offices. A stark reminder in these grim days of the slow, painful death of print media.
There was a church there once. A monastery to be exact, founded around 1260. A fact that will surely boggle the minds of most North Americans. Originally the gardens of Grey Friar’s monastery it was granted to the town as a burial ground in 1564 by Mary, Queen of Scots because apparently the stench of the burial ground outside St Mary’s church was too unbearable. Anyone wanting to make a comment about how this says a lot about Dundonians and their predilection to not washing and therefore being immune to stench would be well advised to hud their wheest.
The name comes from the fact the Nine Incorporated Trades used to use it as a meeting place, or Howff in Scots. Documents from the time mention that each Trade had a tombstone that they liked to gather round for meetings and on which the Deacon in charge of the Trade would sit. They paid rent to the town for the privilege of doing so. As well as their individual areas the Trades would meet together at a specified area where the “Convener’s Stone” stands. This stone also has dubious and unproven connections with the last witch executed in Dundee, Grissell Jaffrey, who was strangled and the burnt at the stake in 1669. People still leave offerings for her on this stone to this day.
It would be a shame really to set a book full of supernatural doings in Dundee and not bring the Howff into it. So I buried the protagonist, Moira’s, late lover there.
The Howff stands in the centre of Dundee. It is the dark, mossy heart of the town. Flanked on two sides by the unadorned walls of old tenements it seems rarely to get sunlight and rots away in a green, damp fug. Moira scaled the locked gates and walked up the pathway straight in front turning once right and then left before stopping at a worn chunk of stone. While in better condition than those surrounding it, it still showed the wear of 269 years under the east coast elements. Rain, sun, wind and the rub of Moira’s fingers had all worn away the writing that once marked it to be John Gordon’s final resting place. As she stood before it her only thought was his face, the joy it would be to see it again. The propriety of raising the dead was not something she’d ever worried about. Nor was it something she’d ever had a problem with before but as she stood there, hands out stretched, the energy crackling as it hit the ground, calling him from the Underworld, nothing happened.
She screamed in anger, and the sound resounded off the buildings, sending pigeons into the air and causing windows to break.
Again, she tried and again nothing happened. In the midst of her rage, she wondered if she needed to eat more but before she could decide a shadow appeared on the pathway to her right. Her heart leapt and his name formed on her lips but she held it back just in time. The shadow stood taller than John, broader in the shoulders. But no less familiar to her.
“Graham,” she spat the name like a curse.
John Graham of Claverhouse, Bonnie Dundee, Bloody Clavers, took form from the shadow.
For more on the Howff check out:http://www.cms.dundee-howff.info/index.php/history
And for more of Grissell Jaffrey take a look at the awesome Dark Dundee site: http://www.darkdundee.co.uk/people-politics/grisselljaffray/
It’s been a wee while since the last post but things have been busy. I finally got the first draft of the Work In Progress (hereby referred to as The Lucky Weasel, with a promise to give it a better title at some point) finished. I’m trying to focus on starting an editing plan but never being much of a planner it’s causing massive headaches and much procrastination. Still, at least the dishes are done.
Reading through I’m noticing a trend. It’s possibly not a good trend and it’s doing nothing to dispel rumours that the Scottish diet is mostly anything deep-fried. Fast food is featuring heavily, there’s kebabs and pot noodles galore. But my favourite appearance is that of the helicopter.
Dear reader, it is time to introduce you to another of Dundee’s wonderful establishments. Clarks 24hr Bakery. Also known as Heaven.
I doubt there’s soul of drinking age (and a good few legally below that line) who has not, at one point or another, been saved by Clark’s. As it name implies it is open 24hrs. I’ll give you a moment to take that in. No matter what time of day or night you can fill your cravings for anything from an empire biscuits to a pot of stovies. I didn’t call it Heaven for no reason.
But wait…there’s more. There’s THE HELICOPTER. This is indeed food from the Gods. Manna. Nectar. Ambrosia. It is: bacon, egg, lorne*, burger and chips** all on a roll***. It puts a Scooby Snack to shame (more on those another day).
I only found one picture of this incredible meal on the internet which worries me that it has met its demise. Perhaps an unsuspecting punter who ate a whole one and died of a coronary has finally sued them. I’ve only ever seen someone eat a whole one once. And the was my good friend, Anna. A wee bit of a lass, not a pick on her. She ate it all and then my left-over stovies. I will never respect anyone more.
Translations for North American:
*lorne– a square sausage patty
**chips– not for dip but rather fries.
To read more on Clarks:
I’ve wanted to write about my hometown for ages. Like most Dundonians, I’m intensely proud of the place. It’s not got the romance of Edinburgh or Inverness. It’s not got the friendly reputation of Glasgow or the oil money of Aberdeen. In fact ask anyone outside the town what they think and they are likely to turn their nose up at it. Or back off in fear. As well they should. But ask a Dundonian and we’ll tell you another story. A story of how the light is perfect, of the way the river reflects sunsets in glorious colours. We’ll tell you of people who know hard work and hardship. We’ll tell you about the strong, fierce women who bind the city and its families together.
So, I’ve set the WIP (provisionally entitled The Lucky Weasel) in Dundee during the referendum of 2014 and this is the first in a series of short posts about the locations that come up in the novel.
The action opens in Mennies, also known as the Speedwell Bar, on the Perth Road. It’s one of my favourite Dundee places. Good beer, good punters, and scampi fries. The pint of eighty I had on my last visit home still haunts my dreams with its silky loveliness. The bar’s website describes it as “one of the finest examples of an Edwardian Bar embracing all that was good in pub architecture at the beginning of the twentieth century.” Which is a fancy way of saying its affy bonny. It makes a great location to set a book in, too. With a main bar, a couple of lounges and the world’s smallest ladies bathroom there’s plenty scope. Add in a magic weasel and the scene is set for a heist of Royal proportions:
No one noticed when Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth the Second walked in the side door of the Speedwell Bar and stole the Lucky Weasel. No one but me. And I wasn’t about to stop her. Not yet at least. So I just watched from the booth I’d managed to commandeer on this busy Saturday night as she leapt neatly over the gantry, sidled along the bar past Gary, stuck with his arm out pouring a pint, to where the weasel sat behind the gin. She tucked the beast in the folds of her cloak, throwing me a saucy wink before disappearing back out the side door. But not before she downed Iain Cunningham’s pint. I wasn’t sure this wouldn’t cause the bigger scandal.
Unfortunately, I made the legend behind the Weasel up. There’s no Weasel behind the gin. I checked. But maybe her Madge really did get it.
It’s two years to the day since Scotland voted to remain part of the UK. I wish I could be more objective about this but it still hurts a bit. And yes, I know, because it has been pointed out more than once, that I don’t have a right to an opinion on this having chosen to leave eight years ago. But guys, I’m sorry. I do have an opinion and the last two years watching Britain descend into fear and insularity has done nothing to change it.
I wish it had been different. But the results cannot be changed. Unlike the face of Scottish politics. Back in 2014, I was on a trip through the Rockies with my parents and staying in a cabin in the mountains. I had no idea if I was going to have access to the internet that day so before I left Banff I posted:
Probably losing internet later today so before I go I just want to extend my thanks to everyone back home for embracing the referendum. I don’t need to tell you all how important it is but for those elsewhere reading this- it is momentous. A country is deciding its fate by democratic vote. It’s not something that happens very often. Whatever the result Scotland has changed history, and changed itself. Nothing will be the same again- people now know they have a voice- the fact that the result looks like being so close really only emphasises this. It’s brilliant and inspiring. Yes there’s been a lot of trolls come out- yes the debate has been heated and personal at times. I expect nothing less, it is personal. But overall, I’m so proud right now to be Scottish. Go vote guys- Looking forward to Friday when I can find out the score!
Throughout the campaign I was so impressed by the way everyone embraced it. I heard stories of people discussing it at bus stops, in the pub. Wherever people went they were talking. And that was huge.
In the end, the result wasn’t the one I’d wanted. It was the one some other folk wanted. But in the end, Scotland gained something that it will be hard to kill- the knowledge that the people really do have the power to change things. Shame that couldn’t have filtered south during the Brexit vote.
But at least we can still blame the English. The other alternative was cats. And that just wouldn’t have been so satisfying.