Day 18: The German Pickle by Jo Fino

1. What gave you the idea for  Baubles story

I had the voice of the teenage narrator in my head for a while and at first wanted to explore her relationship with a  much younger sibling and how she dealt with that. Then the father who spends vast amounts of  unexplained time away from home came forward and I wanted to look at how he affected the family when he was home and what he was really doing. The gifts the father brings were inspired by some of my own possessions, but what pulled it all together for me was when I found out about the story behind the German pickle bauble. The fact that the veracity of this story and its origins is questioned echoed the theme of what is real and not real in the life of this family and the teenage narrator's growing frustration, as she struggles with her relationship with her parents, whilst still clinging to the innocent beliefs  of her sibling. I deliberately left  the ending unexplained as many things between families remain unresolved and unexplained.In addition it's a story I think will come back to me and continue to be written.

2. How would you describe your normal style of writing?

 I often think a lot about stories in my head , or store an idea from something I've heard or read ( I should write them down straight away more often though!) When I sit down to write I very rarely know exactly what's going to happen, and when I think I do the story invariably goes in a different direction.I think for me that's all part of the magic and excitement. It's like unwrapping the presents on Christmas Day as a child and not knowing what I'm going to reveal.

3. Have you published other material?
 I have had a piece of flash fiction and another short story published  in Bridgehouse anthologies and a short story published in a national writing magazine which won the first prize in the monthy open competition.

4.Do you have a writing routine?

At present I write as and when I can find pockets of time, in between running a business and bringing up my child.

5.Do you have a favourite place for writing?

.I enjoy sitting outside and scribbling, anywhere that has a view. Cafes, where I can surreptitiously  people watch and occasionally eavesdrop.

6. Tell something quirky about you.

I can't stand the word 'fruitful'...even just writing it down makes my toes curl.

Evie still believes in the magic. Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, red nosed reindeers; Father Christmas, of course, is top of her hit list. She even thinks there really are fairies at the bottom of our garden. I like to watch her talking to them. She nestles down in the grass, her hair tumbling all over her face and I see her lips moving, chatting to the fairies as she plucks up the daisies. She gently squeezes each moist green stem, her pink shiny nails making tiny slits and then she spends ages putting the little chains together, one for Evie, one for Mum, one for the fairies, one for me, and always an extra one in case Dad comes home.

They were the first thing Mum told me about Evie: her nails. “I swear these last few days she was scratching me. Desperate to get out she was. Look at them Libby. They’re like those teensy shells we collect on the beach, except the edges are all ragged, as if she’s been chewing them. See?” Then Mum held out Evie’s screwed up little fist to me and smiled, not at me; it was the smile that went over me, and she got that ‘I’m somewhere else’ face on. I knew then she was thinking about Dad. He missed Evie’s birth, like he had missed a lot of events in the past few years.

Evie was a late baby. I was already eight years old when she came along. Mum’s little miracle. Mum said it was a wonder Evie happened at all with how little time Dad spent at home and I said that was way too much information for a child of my age, even if I was Mum’s ‘grown up girl’. We settled into a new pattern, Mum and Evie and me. The Miracle Child grew to be blonde and bonnie, and always laughing. Quick to learn new things Evie never stopped and she never gave up until she got to where she wanted to be; she was like a mini one way train on a single track and she was loud. But Mum never seemed to mind and when Dad was home he would swing her up onto his shoulder then flip her over his back and she’d land on her hands on the floor. Dad never did stuff like that with me. I was the Serious One, which was really a polite way of saying clumsy. I knew the first time Dad came home after Evie was born that he would fall in love with her, and I watched his face when Mum handed Evie to him and I wondered if he looked at me that same way the first time. I didn’t mind that Dad fell for Evie so quickly; I was glad because I felt the same way too. There was no way you could not love Evie and I thought that if Dad felt like that then he’d come home more often, he wouldn’t travel all over the world to such far-away places, because he had Evie to come home to.

I once asked Mum what Dad really did and she gave me a strange look and said “He buys and sells, you know that Libby, all over the world.”

“Yes but what does he buy and sell Mum? You never tell me.”

Day 11: Snow Woman by Jo Fino

What gave you the idea for your Snowflakes story?

It started with a long piece of descriptive writing about a heavy snow fall. There is a moment when you wake up and you hear the silence of the snow in your bedroom, as if the world outside has been muffled  and you just somehow know when you open the curtains it's going to be there : the snow.
My main character was the eyes and ears that described the snow, but then she took on a life of her own and became a child's mind in a woman's body, a young girl who never had the chance to enjoy the snow. The first draft of the story was written in 2010 as a submission to a creative writing course I attended. It has been edited and redrafted several times since then and last year the long piece of descriptive writing that inspired it was remodelled into a poem.

Snow Woman was originally anonymous but when I  named her Martha she took charge. She represents elements of myself and of several people I have come across in my life, but she is also her own unique person. Snow Woman tells how Martha deals with her family and what happened, but ultimately, I think it's  about having the  chance to take opportunities for growth and happiness whatever your situation.


How would you describe your normal style of writing?
My writing style has evolved and developed through experience and experimentation.  When I was younger ( dreadful phrase!) I used to do a lot of scribbled, angst ridden stream of consciousness writing. It was very personal and cathartic and I have written pieces since which reflect this. I have always loved writing descriptively for  the sheer joy of using, blending and manipulating words to show what I see. I find these pieces very useful to store and refer back to for inspiration for stories or to use sections  in longer pieces of work.
I write my best when I really get inside and become a character so I do a lot of short stories in the first person.Recently I have written as a teenage boy, a mother dealing with a challenging teenager, a dying man and as an eight year old girl.
I am also known in my writing group for sharing either short stories or observational pieces where I can incorporate humour, mainly although not exclusively  from a female perspective.

Have you published other material?I have a short piece of flash fiction in  Best of Cafelit 2013 Anthology and  three pieces of flash fiction  and a humorous  story called The Twelve Days of Christmas ( since re edited )on the Cafelit website. I was published as the monthly competition winner in Writers Forum national magazine with my story called 'Cruel Summer'.

Do you have a writing routine?My routine fits around running my business with my husband and ferrying my daughter to all her after school and weekend activities. I carry my mini pc and notebook everywhere and grab writing time whenever I can, sometimes just sat in the car. Sunday afternoons are  good writing time at home.

Do you have a favourite place for writing?I am  always trying to make little writing nests ( the latest in what was a tiny en suite shower room, which now houses all my writing files and books and a little writing desk).However my favourite places for writing are wherever I am able to just write without interruption( sometimes a cafe, sometimes a library)  or where I can hide behind a latte and  observe people for inspiration.


Tell something quirky about you. 

Jo's alter ego

I have in excess of 150 pairs of shoes of various descriptions, which I am keeping for my eight year old daughter, on the basis that they may well be 'vintage' in the future.
My first cat was named Bela Lugosi  after the Bauhaus single  'Bela Lugosi's Dead' but his nickname was Iggy ( after Iggy Pop).

An extract from Snow Woman

It had been a long deep sleep, the kind which takes time to have an effect. Martha stretched out her sated limbs, and inhaled. The air was different. Overnight something had changed. The small child rose within her and she struggled from the jungle of sheets, padded across the worn carpet and tugged at the heavy curtains.

 Snow: it lay below in thick piles, fitted over grass and pathways. On the hillside above crawling jelly-coloured tots trailed sledges in bright sprawling lines. She dragged on an old oversized sweater, thick socks and faded denims, ran down the back stairs, thrust her feet into old boots and wrenched open the kitchen door. Before her lay the virgin garden. Martha stepped out slowly, sighing at the first creak of submission. Then, with a wild shriek she launched herself onto the white mattress landing face first in the icy snow, her nose scorched by the cold. She raised her face and laughed rolling over and over, arms spread eagled, supplicant to the snow god.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing? Get up. You look ridiculous.” It was Mother’s rasping voice.

“Just look at her, Mama. You can’t leave her alone for five minutes. She’s an embarrassment. Don’t you think it’s about time we did something about it?” Her spoilt sister, Rosie, Mother’s favourite.

“What do you expect Rosie? She’s not like the rest of us is she?” The modulated tones of her older brother, Jack.

Martha closed her eyes, shaking her head from side to side, snow sticking to her cheeks and ears. The voices. Again. This couldn’t be. They were all gone now.

“Look at her. What is she doing? You’ll have to keep her out of the way when Sam’s family come for dinner. Please Mama.”

“She’s just attention seeking. Ignore her sweetheart.” Mother’s voice always softening for Rosie.

“Why don’t you send her to visit Auntie Cynthia? She never seems to have any trouble with Martha.”

    Well done Jack. She loved Auntie Cynthia. They were muttering amongst themselves in the kitchen now. Martha scooped soft snow into her ears and closed her eyes. She stayed very still, willing the melting snow to numb her lobes.

When Martha finally sat up and looked around she couldn’t hear anything except the slow silence of the snow. Good. They were gone. She would write about them in her diary later. It was her secret. And Auntie Cynthia’s. She would sit quietly in the corner carrying out small jobs she was deemed capable of doing and listening. They didn’t know she had a good memory. She was very precise, noting down everything they said and everything they did. In the margins she doodled little pictures of them. Auntie Cynthia said she had a gift. She missed Auntie Cynthia.

A movement from the white laden bushes in the border distracted her and she caught a flash of red. She cooed softly. “Hungry little robin?” He flitted over to the birdbath and tapped the solid surface. “Thirsty too?” The robin flew to the glistening holly tree and settled to watch while Martha chose a stone from the crusted rockery and launched it into the centre of the ice. It broke with a satisfying crack and she used the stone to mash the ice up.