Glynis Scrivens sends us some interesting links to her blog.
Blog: I should be writing 15 August 2015 - http://lynnehackles.blogspot.com.au/2015/08/edit-is-four-letter-word.html
Blog: A likely story 21 August 2015 - http://teresaashby.blogspot.com.au/2015/08/edit-is-four-letter-word.html
Blog: Susan Jane Jones’s Blog – Writing and doodling about
things I like 25 August 2015 - https://susanjanejones.wordpress.com/2015/08/25/welcome-glynis-scrivens/
Newsletter 2: Iain Pattison – 1 October 2015 - http://www.iainpattison.co.uk/?wysija-page=1&controller=email&action=view&email_id=39&wysijap=subscriptions-2&user_id=54
Blog:
womagwriter 12 November 2015 -http://womagwriter.blogspot.com.au/2015/11/interview-with-womagwriter-glynis.html
And her favourite place to write:
An extract from Heat to Heart
Brenda glanced nervously at her watch. Three o’clock.
Her daughter Alice would be here any moment. She hadn’t seen her for nearly
twelve months. Was it really that long ago that Alice had stormed off, to live
with her aunt in Surrey? Originally it was to be for a week, but her aunt had
needed a hip replacement and Alice had offered to stay and help. Then she’d found
a job locally.
The odd postcard had arrived, with snippets of news, and
they’d exchanged birthday presents, but Brenda hadn’t really felt they’d
communicated. Not until last night’s phone call when Alice had said she was
driving up to see her. There’d been a wariness and tension in Alice’s voice
when she’d phoned her, but something else as well.
Was it possible after all this time that Alice too was
hoping to find a bridge to link their troubled hearts?
She looked at the quilted wall hanging, which she’d made in
the weeks after Alice had moved out. When her own heart had ached and swelled
with grief.
A car pulled up outside. Brenda wiped the palms of her hands
onto her jeans.
The first thing she noticed about Alice as she walked up the
driveway was her hair. It was blonde, just as it had been when she was young.
She stood by the window to watch the sunlight glinting off her daughter’s hair.
Somehow she’d never got used to seeing Alice with black
hair. Never understood the need to cover up who she was.
Alice had always covered things up. That’d been the problem.
And Brenda had never really felt able to deal with the sorry
situations that’d resulted.
Maybe the blonde hair was a reflection of other changes? A
small ray of hope entered her heart.
The doorbell rang, and Brenda hurried down the hall.
She clasped Alice in her arms. “I love your hair,” she
managed.
Alice shrugged. “I wanted a change.” Her voice was subdued.
Brenda led her into the kitchen. She knew Alice hated any
kind of fuss, so she started to make coffee. She’d let her daughter do the
talking. It’d be silly to get the visit off on the wrong footing after all this
time. She’d never quite known what to say to her, even now.
Alice sat down at the wooden table and looked around.
Brenda carefully measured the coffee beans into her
old-fashioned grinder. It looked as though it belonged in another century. To a
time when people weren’t always in a hurry. When there was time for families to
sit around the kitchen table and sort out their differences. When people spent
more time simply talking to each other. And listening. That’s why she’d bought
it, when she’d seen it in the charity shop. To remind herself to walk through
time, not run.
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