Thursday, 3 December 2015

Day 3: Angels by Sally Angell

I got the inspiration for my story from real life events. Ideas had been going round in my head for a while, of writing a story which used snow as a theme and metaphor for these experiences.
My normal style of writing I would describe as Literary/Expressive.
I have been placed in competitions.  My children’s poetry has been published by the OUP, and Stanley Thornes (Educational Publisher), and my children’s fiction published in Bridgehouse anthologies. I have had poetry and fiction published in magazines and anthologies over the years eg in Cadenza and Scribble and Pause. My short stories have been read on Connect FM radio.
I am studying to develop my literary short story writing at the moment, and tend to write notes down on anything handy – shopping lists etc! in the early stages of a story when I ‘get’ bits in my head.  I hand-write to start with, and later on go on to the computer. I like the contemplative process, when ideas all start to grow and form starts to emerge.  When at the actual typing up and polishing stage, I will do about an hour or so a day.
I do the hand-writing/notes/first draft in my new kitchen or cafes, and the typing up in my computer/writing room which is a small bedroom upstairs. My favourite place for writing though, or one of them, is in my head.
I think I must just be generally quirky, as people often say, ‘I’ve never met anyone like you before!’ or ‘I would never say that.

An extract  from Angel 

 The receiver fell from Ruth’s hand, a voice at the other end going faint and scribbly. But she knew. And she wasn’t ready. How could anyone ever be ready? It was too much. Her senses struggled for the tools learnt to cope with stress. Ruth looked up. Waited. No warmth. No comfort. Nothing.

Standing in the surreal brightness of the coffee shop on the designated day, she still isn’t ready. The thick buttoned coat and neck-hugging scarf don’t stop her shivering. The future has become one of those fiction stories with different conclusions, where the reader decides the one they want. But she, Ruth Simmonds, won’t be able to write hers.
At a table in the far corner Tara’s back is hunched and unmoving, her half-brushed hair sticking up at the collar of the fleece she seems to live in. Ruth’s stomach flips. Tara shouldn’t be caught up in all this. Twenty-six is a time for enjoying youth, or at least being free to explore possibilities. A mother isn’t her daughter’s responsibility, but there’s no one else locally. And Ruth badly needs someone with her today.
Copies of a new poster are stuck up on the walls of the coffee house. It’s a festive offer. There’s a digital picture, a bowl with steam zig-zagging up above it. ‘Coming soon! 1st December – Christingal Special – Delicious Hot Soup with Roast Potatos, Turkey, Chipolata and Vegtable pieces.’ She can’t produce the critical grimace that would be automatic for Normal Ruth. Her hands are stiff too, as if the fingers belong to someone else, when she tries to count change for the till.



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