Hooray! At long last my book is published! Available as paperback and Kindle edition:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/More-Life-Maureen-Moss/dp/1542955092/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1489310238&sr=8-1&keywords=more+to+life
I'm very excited, of course, and want to acknowledge and thank everyone in our group for supporting, chastising (!), advising and encouraging me. Maureen
TORREVIEJA WRITERS' CIRCLE
This is the blog site for the Torrevieja Writers' Circle - a group of people meeting weekly to read, discuss and share their work of fiction, non-fiction, poetry and all genres of writing.
Sunday, 12 March 2017
Friday, 9 December 2016
A book of short stories, Our Song under my maiden name Heather Douglas, is now available on Amazon. Warning: more murder than romance!
See https://bloominheather.com/
Also on the website is the Story for Christmas below.
"These dark stories of unexpected
death explore the different viewpoints of family, witness, victim, policeman or
murderer. They are sometimes disturbing, sometimes humorous, always gripping and
take place in variety of locations and situations. Just as the popular songs of the titles are
recognisable, so too are the emotions of love, loss and jealousy revealed here,
but the steps to revenge, murder and remorse taken in these chilling tales are smaller
than we might realise."
See https://bloominheather.com/
Also on the website is the Story for Christmas below.
Christmas
presents - such a lot of effort and in the end nothing but trouble! Lizzie got me a theatre trip to London, train
fare and hotel and tickets for a show, what a lovely idea. She was that mad when I said I couldn’t go.
“You’ve done
Christmas, Mum,” she pointed out. “You’ve done all the work. Can’t you have some time off?”
“I can’t leave
your Granddad, love, you know I can’t.”
“Dad can look
after him,” she said. “It’s only one
night. He can give Granddad a bowl of
soup, can’t he?” It sounded reasonable
enough.
“Oh Lizzie,
sweetheart,” I said, “Your Dad can’t –“
Can’t what? How could I
explain? Can’t get Dad into his pyjamas
and out of them again when there is no resistance in the limbs, dressing babies
is simple compared to that. Can’t tell
him to wipe his bum or do it for him if you’re just not getting through. Can’t persuade him back to bed at three in the
morning when his teeth are chattering because the heating went off hours ago
but he thinks it’s the middle of the day.
Can’t find the right reassuring answer to questions like where am I, who
are you? Though it’s not the detail, not really. What Jack can’t face up to is the big
picture. He and Dad used to have such a
laugh together, used to enjoy the football and the quiz down at the pub. Now Dad doesn’t know Jack’s name. “He just can’t,” I said firmly.
“I wanted you to
come with me. I wanted some time for us,
for me and you together. I can’t go on
me own. But I should have known.” Oh what a tear jerker. She thinks she’s doing it for my own
good. She’s always been manipulative,
our Lizzie.
“Yes, you
should,” I said tartly, then tried to soften it a bit. “One day, darling. I’d love to go. I’d love to go with you. But not now.”
For a moment
though, I was that upset, thinking how I’d spent my life taking care of Jack’s
feelings and knowing he couldn’t spare a night to think of mine. Did he never wonder what it was like for me,
it was my Dad for goodness sake who’d
gone somewhere deep and dark. When it
started I used to think his head was like a honeycomb, how if you were lucky
you hit a connection and everything was OK, but more and more often you fell
into the holes in between. Now his head
seems like an overgrown forest and he’s inside like a scared child, feeling
monsters might lurk in every corner and thinking if he sits very still and
doesn’t say a word, then they won’t get him.
But on that very
day, in the dead zone between Christmas and New Year, when in another universe
I might have been in London, all dressed up in some glitzy theatre waiting for
the drum roll – that was the night I saw our Brian’s Jamie playing with a
balloon. He’s a quiet little lad, good
as gold, you don’t notice him half the time and I suppose we’d kind of
forgotten he was there, sat playing under the tree while Dad sat same as always
in his chair in front of the telly.
People can be quite snotty about old folk parked in front of the telly
but what they don’t realise is, it’s an anchor.
It keeps them still and safe and attached to the world. They don’t follow it, they don’t know what’s
going on half the time, but it’s colour and noise and it is familiar. Most important of all, it’s someone talking
who isn’t demanding an answer. Real
people come up close and put on a funny voice and ask questions more difficult
than what’s the meaning of life, questions like how are you today? The telly makes no demands at all. It is everybody’s alibi and that includes the
person with dementia. People should
remember that.
Anyway I’d been
in the kitchen making a cup of tea while Jack was hiding in the back room
listening to some match on the radio. Janice,
Brian’s wife, had taken Rebecca off upstairs to change her nappy and Lizzie was
picking a fight with Brian in the hall about who had had the most to drink and
who could go to the off licence to get more gin. Brian mostly goes along with his sister’s
ideas, years of experience, anything for a quiet life, but every so often he
makes a stand. I was coming through the
living room doorway when Jamie patted his balloon to Dad. I was just about to interfere like I always
did, to distract Jamie from disappointment, to protect Dad from expectation,
when at the last minute Dad’s arm shot out and he batted it back. Back and forth that balloon went and I stood
frozen, wanting this moment to last for ever, praying the others would stay
where they were.
It was dark
outside, but the lights were sparkling on the tree and the fire was crackling
in the grate behind the fireguard and I could smell the pine needles and the mince pies warm from the oven. It could have been another Christmas, any
Christmas from before, from long ago. Then all at once Brian and Lizzie were
laughing and agreeing to walk to the off licence together and Janice was carrying
the baby down the stairs singing Jingle Bells off key and Jack came through to
ask where was the tea. The balloon lay still
on the floor, but Jamie sent his Great Granddad a secret smile and my Dad
nodded and patted the balloon with his toe before withdrawing back inside
himself.
That moment was
my Christmas present. It’s the one I’ll
try to remember.
Sunday, 6 November 2016
Monday, 24 October 2016
Over Stones
This is a new post on my website https://bloominheather.com , a poem called Over Stones.
The morning mist
retreated leaving green hills bright with dew.
The sunlight dried the
water drops, the grass thinned out anew.
Brown stains spread
Blood shone red
In splatters over
stones.
Here lay the dead
Shot with lead
And carrion bared their
bones.
The land retains our
history enclosed in its rich earth
Our crops feed off the
wealth of dead and give us our rebirth.
New blooms spread
Petals shine red
In patterns over
stones.
Rich flower bed
With love’s care fed
For our past sins
atones.
The ground is hallowed
where we walk in every country village
Its history holds the
sins of war, of death and rape and pillage
Yet we forget
We’re sinning yet
We fight wars overseas
New death is met
New grievance set
And we harvest bitter
tears.
The land retains our
history enclosed in its rich earth
Our crops feed off the
wealth of dead and give us our rebirth
Ian Smith of the Costa Blanca English Folk Music Club composed the music for this, but unfortunately I do not know how to add an MP3 audio file.
Heather
Thursday, 22 September 2016
Sunday, 11 September 2016
I wanted to acknowledge 9/11 in some way, so I posted a review of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer on my website https://bloominheather.com/
Heather Gingele
Foer writes like
an angel – or rather a cherub, since his protagonist is a 9 year old boy. Oskar’s father died on 9/11 and in an effort
to deal with his loss, Oskar embarks on an odyssey through New York , trying to find the lock that
belongs to a key his father left. His
research reveals that there are 162 million locks in New York , but he has a name which narrows
the search down to possible. As Oskar
progresses, we are also shown more and more of the continuing effect on his
grandparents of the bombing of Dresden
in 1945.
We may count, or
fail to count, the numbers involved in the big events history records, but each
one is made up of innumerable individual tragedies. This family has suffered twice, and what we
see in the juxtaposition of old and new grief is that the effects last a lifetime. However hard they try, those left behind
cannot let go.
We see largely
through Oskar’s eyes and hear his voice, so the characters are at first sight
cartoonish, but as Foer stands them in the light we see more and more of their
complexity. Particularly poignant is his
portrayal of Oskar’s mother, who is not fully revealed until the end of the
book, but it is Oskar himself who resonates with truth.
The reader does
not have to ask or answer difficult questions about historical perspective or ethical
slights of hand. We are simply placed
inside the family, incredibly close, and suffer the fall out with them, which
is extremely loud. This is a book about
grief and while you will meet enchanting characters, be stunned by the quality
of the writing and laugh along the way, if you survive to the end you will be
beyond tears.
Sunday, 31 July 2016
Sounding Board
Hooray! I got in! Thanks to Rob.....though I have no idea how I got here!
So, as promised, here is the link to Sounding Board:
http://authorservicesnetwork.com/soundingboard/
Well what is it? (for those of you who haven't been to Writers' lately)
The best way to find out is to look here:
http://authorservicesnetwork.com/soundingboard/submit/
It explains what Sounding Board is and how it works. It's for readers as well as writers, by the way!
If you're unsure about anything please get in touch with me: maureenmoss@fastmail.fm
So, as promised, here is the link to Sounding Board:
http://authorservicesnetwork.com/soundingboard/
Well what is it? (for those of you who haven't been to Writers' lately)
The best way to find out is to look here:
http://authorservicesnetwork.com/soundingboard/submit/
It explains what Sounding Board is and how it works. It's for readers as well as writers, by the way!
If you're unsure about anything please get in touch with me: maureenmoss@fastmail.fm
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