One Little Moment of Unawareness by Ana Luiza Libânio

Amid the rat race, life does offer us good moments. They feel like oasis in the desert big cities can be.

Not long ago, I was the lucky one to receive a compliment, or to be conducted to a refuge where I could relax, breath, and regain energy to get back to my routine. It was right after evoking all my positive thoughts to find a spot where I could park my car, down town Belo Horizonte, the capital of Minas Gerais, in Brazil. As if it were waiting for the right moment, when I stepped out of the car, my cellphone buzzed. To my surprise, on the other end the voice of a friend from those golden years when we didn’t have a phone in our bags, very enthusiastic, called out my name, in syllables, so he made sure to fill my ear with the joy of hearing my name from his lips again: “A - na! Lu - i - za!”

In my mind, I could only say a timid “oh yes, I am Ana Luiza” and he continued on how we should get together, and how he missed our conversations, and how we had to have coffee, or maybe dinner, or breakfast, okay... Let’s have lunch.

That was my cue; I spoke: “Sounds like a date! I’ll pick you up, tomorrow, at your hotel”.

At that point I was already updated and knew all about the years we haven’t seen each other. He knew nothing about me. Not even that I had planed to use my lunch hours, the following day, to work on a last minute translation I was asked. Or maybe he was sure, in case I had work, I would rearrange my schedule and meet my deadline before lunch time.

That was exactly what I did, and on that warm, sunny Friday, my friend and I enjoyed lunch together.

It was a blast!

After long time and no see there were so many stories to share we were chatter boxes while the food went cold. What made the accounts amusing and interesting was the fact that we had only a couple of hours to tell them all. We had to be precise on:

(1) who were the characters, 

(2)what were the incidents, 

(3) where the story took place, 

4) when everything happened, 

(5) why things happened the way they did, and of course, we had to know the 

(6) reason why we were telling one thing and not the other — you know, when you have little space you must know what you use it for; and, not least, you should know 

(7) how to tell what you are about to speak out.

Terror, fantasy, romance, sci-fi, and even comedy were in our line. We particularly burst out laughing when my friend decides to ask me: “So, Ana, what have you been up to? How’s professional life coming along?”

Neither the question, nor the answer would be funny had Adrian understood my reply. And to his “Oh! Now you are a Communist?” we laughed so hard because all I said was I am a columnist.

I am no Communist, no Socialist, no... There’s no -ist involved in my work. I am a writer regularly contributing to an e-magazine called Rio Total with stories about the daily life of people. After that, saying I’m a blogger, a novelist, and a translator, was not comical, but a serious deal. Well, and when I told my friend I write about different topics such as gender and social issues, and literature, we got pretty serious and focused on that. Especially when Adrian learned I am dedicated to respecting the diversity of human kind by creating different characters, and stories which depict the reality of real people around the world. My friend then shared with me the joy of having my novel written, ready to be published and to speak out against prejudice.

That was, no doubt, a moment to remember. I left the restaurant with this involuntary smile and with hopes of getting back to an oasis like that every now and then; after all, quoting João Guimarães Rosa (★1908 ✝1967 — Minas Gerais, Brazil), and in my own translation, “we find happiness in little moments of unawareness”.

Ana Luiza Libânio is a writer and translator in Belo Horizonte, MG, Brazil.

Brit Writers Blog

If you can’t learn to read… you can’t read to learn by Claire Kinton

Only me again!  I just wanted to share with you something new that I am doing in the run up to Christmas.  I’m not only an author but also an avid fundraiser for Dyslexia Action, a cause very dear to my heart and I feel it is so SO important to raise awareness and support those living with dyslexia. 

If you can’t learn to read… you can’t read to learn.

You may be aware that I ran the Virgin London Marathon 2012 in aid of Dyslexia Action, but I’m now also doing a ‘Read-a-thon’ for them.  I plan to read and review and blog/interview 10-15 independent authors’ books this side of Christmas.  Believe me, this is no easy challenge for a dyslexic. 

So let me tell you a little bit about Dyslexia Action and the reason why I wholeheartedly support what they do.  Dyslexia Action is the biggest dyslexia charity in the UK and they provide a wide range of services to people of all ages who have dyslexia and struggle with literacy.  There is somewhere between four and five percent of the population who live with dyslexia and it is estimated that there are about 375,000 pupils in the UK with dyslexia and a total of some two million people who are severely affected.

When I was at school, in the later years of juniors, I became aware that I was slightly different from the other children.  I had a real sense of being an outsider.  I had difficulty with math’s concepts, problems understanding the rules of grammar and mastering spelling was hopeless.  I reversed letters and numbers and took much longer to think and respond to questions.  I was a very slow reader back then and the thought of having to read aloud in class petrified me.  I spent most days daydreaming at the back of the room, doodling and drawing.  Unlike our education system today, my silence in class did not arouse suspicion in the teacher that something was amiss.  However, she found my lack of concentration and progression galling to the point where every morning I was called to the front of the class and told me to repeat ‘Claire is stupid’ to my fellow classmates, a humiliation that has haunted me for a lifetime.  Justifiably I had massive problems with my self-esteem and a great sense of underachievement and after time, I really did indeed believe I was ‘stupid’.  This manner went on for some months and it wasn’t until my mother turned up at class one day and witnessed what I was forced to do that my life turned around.  I never knew why my mother turned up that day, maybe I had a dentist appointment or maybe it was a mother’s intuition that something wasn’t right.  Whichever it was, my parents whipped me from that school so fast my feet didn’t touch the ground. 

I was lucky… but I was also, by then, accustomed to disguising myself and my learning differences, which is typical.  It is exhausting being insecure.  Back then my only pleasure was role-playing, singing, dancing and being someone else. I had always dreamed of being a writer, but no one could understand a word I wrote. So what was the point in striving for something that could never happen?   I wasn’t aware of how dyslexia assessments on children worked, but my mother being a teacher herself, knew something was not right and she had me tested and it was confirmed… I was dyslexic. 

Some people with dyslexia are able to disguise their weaknesses, compensating and often do acceptably well or better - but there comes a time in higher education when a threshold is encountered, where they are no longer able to compensate for their learning differences.  I’m reluctant to use the word ‘weakness’ because although back then it felt like a weakness I’ve later learnt it most certainly isn’t.  Dyslexic people simply learn differently, we are active and visual thinkers, who learn best by hands on rather than lecturing.  Along with the endless list of things dyslexic people struggle to do, dyslexia is not an intellectual disability; we have many natural strengths that could even be construed as unique traits.  Yes… we get bored easily; we’re inattentive and seek stimulation, preferring unstructured situations with lots of freedom.  But we are aware of everything; we are highly perceptive and intuitive.  We are curious risk-takers, capable of doing multiple things at the same time.  As I’ve already said we’re highly creative and artistic with vivid imaginations.  We have drive and ambition – we think in pictures instead of words and are capable of seeing things differently from others – outside the box if you like.

I know exactly what if feels like to be told, ‘You’re different.  You have to go to a special school.’ It broke my heart, I was embarrassed, ashamed and I never believed in a billion years I would stand and tell assemblies of teenagers about it; write blogs about it or even run a marathon or attempt a ‘Read-a-thon’ in aid of helping people who live with it.  My confidence has come a long way and I will do everything in my power to help and encourage others with dyslexia.

I spent my final two years of junior school under the wing of a phenomenal teacher, who gradually drew out the creativity in me and gave me back my confidence.   Now my coping strategies are in place I almost feel I have ruled out my dyslexia.  I am still a slow reader, hence why the ‘Read-a-thon’ is such a huge challenge and I occasionally have to re-read sentences to make sense out of them but I love, and always have done, the art of storytelling, whether it’s through music, film, theatre or books.  As you may know and hence why am here on the Brit Writers blog, I made my writing dream come alive and have now written a book, two in fact and I’m currently working on the third.  I have three beautiful children to teach and inspire.  I truly believe, it is not only children who grow. Us as parents do too. As much as we watch to see what our children do with their lives, they are likewise watching us to see what we do with ours. I can tell my children to reach for the stars, but they will only follow my example, therefore all I can do is reach for the stars myself.  Literacy is so important, it is a great way of communicating and a socially acceptable way of expressing yourself, it is an essential tool that every child and adult should possess.

I was so afraid of being judged when I was younger but now I just think; surely if life had wanted me to think ‘by the book’ I would have been made otherwise. The bullying I experienced at school has made me far more determined to help others living with dyslexia and help them to be who they are and not shy away or be demoralised.  Remember two or three children in every classroom struggle to learn to read and write. For those with more severe needs it is essential that they have access to specialist teaching. Currently many of these children do not get the help they need due to lack of trained specialist staff and their difficulties can go unnoticed or unexplained.  Without the correct identification and support dyslexia can be a barrier to learning and can lead to failure at school, exclusion or anti-social behaviour  For many children who struggle to learn, their behavior and confidence can be badly affected.  Like I said at the beginning, if you can’t learn to read, you can’t read to learn!

We need to change the face of how dyslexia is viewed and how it is remedied. I endeavour now to take away any shame behind the word dyslexia and swap it for pride.

Please let me know your thoughts on this blog… I’d be interested to hear how others have coped with their dyslexia and likewise how others have viewed it before now.

Thanks!

For Claire's donation page, click here

The blog for 'Brit Writers and Writers Everywhere' blog.

What does it take to be a great storyteller? by Howard Robinson

I have a theory that I first applied to music some years ago. And that is there are only two types of music – good and bad. It doesn’t matter if it is rock, pop, soul or classical, there is good and bad in every genre. The same is true of fiction. No one genre is better than another; what we must look for and strive to achieve is not only good writing but also great storytelling. 

From talking to people who read as well as write, I have been looking at the traits that make up the most effective storytellers. These are the people who write with energy, who create light and shade in their writing, who surprise themselves as well as the reader and avoid the perils of monotony.

Great storytellers remember that, whether it is the writer’s desire to provoke, shock, amuse or scare, he must also entertain. They must have fun with their readers as they carry them through the story; with them, not at their expense.

The great storytellers are emotive in their writing. They pose questions for us as readers to ponder, they create characters and scenarios with which their readers will identify and care about, and are engaging enough to draw their readers into the story and the worlds which they create. They make us hang on their every word. They build suspense as they write; are consistently unpredictable in the ways in which their stories unfold, and they reflect the way life is as well as we might wish it to be. After all, how predictable is every twist and turn in life?

“To Kill A Mockingbird” is a classic example; it addresses important issues but carries us with it because we care about the injustice being served on Tom Robinson and we invest emotionally in Finch’s morality and determination to provide him with a defence against the odds. It is written with sensitivity, humour and with warmth; it entertains yet it also asks questions our priorities and values. It is as relevant today as it was when it was written. It is a pattern that was used to equally great effect more recently in John Boyne’s “The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas”. Another story of global proportions personified in the simplistic eyes of two small boys, we begin to sense what may be about to happen to both characters. Yet what reader cannot sense the heartbreak rising within them for both Bruno and Samuel as the story’s denouement leaves them both as victims.

Of course, knowing this is no guarantee of being able to carry it off. As Brit Writers all we can do is strive to do our best; to write with honesty and with humanity and, of course, the most beautiful aspect of it all, is that only our readers can ever say whether we have achieved it or not.

by Howard Robinson

The blog for 'Brit Writers and Writers Everywhere' blog.

Ana Elahal shares her Journey as a Writer

Hello,

What a challenge to introduce myself as a writer in the land of Shakespeare and J.R. Tolkien, while I am literally sweating, in the hot Center west region of Brazil, in the daily production of yet my first book. But everything has a starting point, and to pave the ground is just as lovely.

I am Ana Elahel, Brazilian, former UN staff member. Until a few years ago, my life was a sequence of breathtaking adventures, a lot of hard work, and idealism. Until I had to quit working. Shattered dreams.  The years of physiotherapy.  Where did everything go?

Wait! The time had come to rebuild my world, choose another dream, and make it come true.  How, when your body hurts so much, and there’s nothing to do but to look at the ceiling? “Ana, you were born to enchant through writing.” This is my best friend’s doing.

And that’s the magic of life: it breaches through any obstacle to make you become who you truly are.

I picked up the notes, short stories and tales that I wrote during those high-adrenaline years, all forgotten in my crammed PC drawer – the archives. Could they be transformed into books? Maybe. But then the main issue was: I had discovered I am a writer.

Then what? Build new networks, participate in writer’s workshops, and resume writing.  One day, I met James McSill, a text surgeon. That’s when I discovered I was writer… in the stage of a seed.

At present, the very, very hard-work part unfolds: write, rewrite. Tutorial sessions. Turn images into words, words into emotions, experiences into fiction literature. Carve universal contents, enthrall with regional spices, open minds. Create worlds and realities.

How fortunate I am to now have the time to write professionally, to allow fantasy fiction to shape itself in my head as I ride my bicycle, the horizon right in front of me.

Today there are no drops of sweat, only the rain drops that hit the window pane as I write this note to the BWA blog.

Ana Elahel / Brasília – DF

On writing and passion by Diogo de Souza

I like writing because it is a mental experience. It occurs within the depths of our imagination, and the pen and paper (or, rather, the keyboard and screen) are merely a means of formalizing what’s happening within us. And because it is a mental experience, it is universal.

If there is one thing that can be said to unite us, I think it is the taste for a good story. We all love it. This is why Shakespeare’s plays can be performed in Japan and be a success, and also why we can be moved by a Kabuki play’s grace and subtlety. A good story is a human story, and it speaks directly to our core: beyond any cultural difference, beyond belief and skin color, beyond abilities and disabilities: it goes to our hearts.

Some people think that writing is a solitary thing; after all, we have to create our stories from out of our own imagination, and deliver them in words through our own writing skill. I, however, disagree. I believe that a book – or any told story for that matter – is a two-fold process. Our mind begets it, and the mind of the reader fulfills it. We are only complete as writers within the thoughts of our audience, and when a reader is drawn into our story, what arises is a melding of our own imagination with theirs: a personal experience which is as unique and as varied as there are people in this world.

It is a human process in essence. Boundaries cannot contain it, personal taste and distaste can select it, but not muffle it. Nothing in the world can constrain a good story. Our work, I thing, is one of the human spirit, and what we can touch, and what we can create, can be so emotionally valid for our audience, that who’s to say it’s not real? Who’s to say these characters do not exist?

I believe that the process of writing, which fuels our passion, is one of discovering, understanding, knowing ourselves at our core, expressing this outward, and reaching out to the world… limitlessly.

Best regards,

Diogo de Souza.

The blog for 'Brit Writers and Writers Everywhere' blog.

How do you promote an blog, and who would want to read it anyway... by Anna Jefferson

My blog has a following in Russia. And I have no idea how. I started writing it 14 months ago when my daughter was born. www.youcantakeherhomenow.blogspot.com It was a way of diarising the experience. The first time she rolled over, the first time she smiled, the first time I had a hangover as a mum. All the key moments. 

I hadn't really done anything to promote it, other than tell a few mates and start a Facebook group. 

And then I set up a twitter account, but I couldn't quite get the hang of how to use it. 

I was told you've just got to push yourself into conversations.

That seemed a bit like the annoying person at a networking breakfast, who foists his card on anyone who makes eye contact. 

I gave it a go. To no avail. 

But then if I had a stranger telling me how delicious a cake my mum had made for my birthday looked, I'd probably think it a bit weird too.

Although Margaret Atwood did retweet something I sent to her. Which has to be up there on the celebrity swooning stakes with shaking Micheale Strachan's hand at the Lincolnshire show in 1986.

I couldn't and still can't work out how to get people to follow my blog. 

I know people must be reading it, because it was nominated for the best writer category in the MAD blog awards. But I've only got 27 actual followers. Twenty seven! It's hardly worth showing off about. 

It was ace going to the swanky awards do, getting dressed up and meeting loads of other mum and dad bloggers. But I felt like a fraud. All of them knew each other through on-line networks, reading each others blogs, and going to blogging conferences. 

I checked out a few of them, and they were inspiring. Entertaining. Heartfelt. Funny. And all had at least two hundred followers.

Now I know a lot of them write reviews of products, or holidays, and use hyperlinks to broaden their reach. But I didn't want to do that. 

My blog has always been about my experience as a new, or newish now, mum. I felt it would be getting off message if I started writing about the merits of Miracle Gro herb bags. 

And then a woman from a PR agency got in touch and asked if I wanted to review a Miracle Gro herb bag. 

And I thought, go on then.

So I set up a different blog, www.mindyourwalletpal.blogspot.com, specifically for reviews. Which has on last count, no followers, so isn't the raving success I was hoping for.

Never mind. 

Thing is, I really enjoy writing my blog about being a mum. And there's something reassuring, almost life affirming, when women get in touch to share their experiences, to empathise, or just to say how they, too, made their daughter look like Marcus from About a Boy after their first home haircut.

But when I looked at the stats, that was probably the biggest surprise as to who and why people have stumbled across my blog. 

Firstly, was the key search phrases, which included 'lentil farts', 'old sckool dance music' and 'how can I get her home'. How disappointing to discover the blog wasn't about successful one liners but sleep deprivation and first steps.

But most surprising was the geographical reach. Now, the majority of the audience was predictably from the UK, followed closely by the USA. No shocks there. But the third most popular country for readers was Russia. 

How are people finding out about my blog in Russia? 

Maybe I need to go to a blogging conference. Work out what I'm doing. Find our how to get some people signing up to follow my blog. 

And then maybe I'll meet some real life people who I can follow on twitter and I can compliment on their baking skills. 

That would be the dream. 

by Anna Jefferson

The blog for 'Brit Writers and Writers Everywhere' blog.

Ten Things I Do When I Can't Write By Sarah Broadley

So, here I am, slogging away, continually checking my twitter feed and hopelessly losing the will to write with every passing minute. It's going to be one of those days!

I feel like I am back at school and doing everything in my power to avoid doing my homework. My notebook lies open beside me, glaring at me and mocking my lack of enthusiasm, a bit like spotting a slice of cake when your trying to be good.  So Mrs 'Look at me all perfect and black' Notebook, your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to bring me round, muster up some energy for me somewhere or as I suspected you could just sit there and glare at me for the rest of the day.

Ten Things I Do When I Can't Write:

1. Make a cup of tea. Ah yes, I hear you all sigh - the old faithful. That will do the trick surely?

2. Pick a letter of the alphabet and write down as many words as you can that describe how you are feeling. I am choosing 'f' today because it can involve a word I use when I am angry, lost and succumbed into silence by my inept brain... 'flummoxed' is the word I was thinking of. Off course it was! So today I am mostly: flummoxed, fraught, frightened and farty  (don't ask - it's a 'can't write' thing) when I really should be flowing, full, frivolous and funny. Maybe tomorrow then?

3.Go for a walk. No this does not mean a slow trudge to the local newsagent, wearing your jammies under your coat (you know who you are!) to stock up on chocolate and tomato flavoured crisps (yum). It means a lovely meander through the misty fields nearby, letting the literary juices flow and a masterpiece under your belt by tea-time like Holly Hops on a Summers Day - oh wait, that's wine I'm talking about now! Er, no thanks, not today.

4. There is a saying 'A tidy house means a tidy mind' or something along those lines, so maybe a wee spring clean or 'gut' as they say in these parts wouldn't go amiss. But then that would mean actually thinking and doing stuff and that old chestnut 'Making A Decision' would come into play. Sigh.

5. Rant - now there's a word that conjures up the fire in your belly. Have a good rant, in my case at myself as I am Home Alone. But then who is going to hear anyway? I have been known to rant at my wee cats, they are usually asleep and a leg twitch every now and again means that I have acknowledgement of sorts.

6. Hit the Library with a bag full of intentions - although the last time I did that - It Was A Disaster.com. There I was feeling the joys of Spring-ish Autumn and making my way down the road listening to a bit of The Bubbles (Michael Buble to anyone that doesn't know what I am on about) and feeling 'You are so right Michael, I haven't met the agent of dreams yet but you never know'. I enter into the fantastic establishment that takes over a corner in Leith and lo and behold. RYME-TIME. For all those un-initiated this is a two hour slot of singing and general hilarity for the under 5's. Don't even try it, just turn around and walk away. As lovely as it is you can't read or think for that matter when they all get going.  Reading this back, I think it's fair to say I am slightly deranged and possibly about to celebrate my 80th birthday with a big bag of humbugs.

7. Exercise  - now there's a word. Not like a nice lazy walk but a fat-burning-sweat-ridden visit to the gym. Moving on.

8. Therapeutic Archive Rummaging - nothing like a good rummage (easy now!) over your old files on your 'pooter. I found some hidden gems that I am currently bringing up to date from about 5 years ago. Amazing stuff and makes me feel all better as I am prone to forget that I have been writing for a long time and a lot of unfinished work really needs to get completed instead of clogging up my meg storage allocation (check me - like I know what that is).

9. Have a bath - depending on the time of day possibly without the glass of wine, candles and soothing music lulling you to sleep - if this happens, start at number 1 on this list and work your way down until you are fully awake and functional again.

10. Eat - now you're talking!

So folks, I have done 1, 2, 3, 5 and 8 so far today. I'm thinking maybe a 9 followed by a lot of 10 and I'll be ready to start back at 'The Desk Of My Writing Life' aka my sofa with laptop on knee.

Many thanks

Sarah Broadley

The blog for 'Brit Writers and Writers Everywhere' blog.

The Almagest by Adriana Kortlandt

There is a woman next to me, blowing stories in my ears, breathing them from my childhood; she is made of wind.

Sometimes, when they refused to open its doors - my hands, two guards - she just kept pounding, almost puncturing my eardrums. Whether she was asleep or awake, alone or accompanied, she visited me and no one noticed. Whether she made up stories similar to lies, it was her air coming out of my mouth.

As a little girl, I was afraid of being alone, because she would hit and her drive haunted me. Cotton in my ears, tape over them and yet the intruder still penetrated. Inspired by the vision of Apollo XI on the small black and white television, I used the latest technology at the time - in my imagination of a child of the sixties, everything that was modern was silver in color - and I pasted aluminum foil, or rather gum wrapper to seal my ears. The result was a night in the emergency room, and the unknown entered anyway.

I was ashamed of my first kiss, first sex; I felt her around, I lived under her shadow.  Only later, when I was much older, I understood the will, I mean, the need of the wind woman: she wanted to ask for asylum.

I must have been her promised land, and the bodiless space where she lived, a desert. To me, a greater adventure than sheltering the refugee was giving a soul to my body, because until her arrival, my life was an open faucet through which flowed only a trickle without warmth.

I let her in. Since then, this intrepid foreigner inhabits my bowels.

Do you know the howl of the wind whooshing through the wastelands? That was her voice inside me. After the scare, I began understanding the stories behind the howling. They are wild. She is something of a cannibal. Like a good treat, I let myself be eaten and it sounds mystical to me. Paradoxically, she filled in all and the most bizarre dimensions, as nobody could ever have done.

We married and feasted.

I am her home, temple, tavern and alcove, caravel, port or caravan. Why not believe that she is the volatile pulp, the steamy flesh of the fruit, whose seed am I? Or maybe, everything is backwards. She and I, dancing without beginning or end, like the Uroboros snake biting its own tail.

From time to time, we live moments of sublime calmness, when we lay in the open, gazing at the sky. At these times, she tells me this or that tale, when she was wandering: A long time ago, in the 2^nd Century of our era, an astronomer called Ptolemy of Alexandria published a treatise on astronomy that later became known as the Almagest - "The Greatest" in Arabic, a title conferred in honor of the great knowledge of the cosmos. In it, the planets and stars rotating around the Earth were described in sophisticated detail. I do not remember the rest of the tale, but now that I have lost count of my age, what pleases me most is its geocentric view, because it makes me think of another center with unknown but essential diameter movement. The Earth can even be round - Ptolemy was wrong - but ... what about the universe? It is an ineffable plan, with the human being in the middle, creating meaning for everything, even his own feelings, even to the need for making sense, or else he cannot even exist. This is the true genesis! I will tell you some stories of wandering pilgrims, as I once was. They are expressions of what the soul kept in hiding, trying to generate sense in that sheer retort. They are memories of death, birth, love ... Finally, changing skin.

She began to tell, and I became her scribe. I listen and write.

by Adriana Kortlandt

The blog for 'Brit Writers and Writers Everywhere' blog.

The Blue Angel by Beatriz Campos

A little about me, about us, about everybody... Our human essence is the same everywhere, our needs and the depth of our psyche on each and every steps of the life of all beings is something inexplicable, but it is translated by those that have the gift and knowledge of the words. I had to think about Lucas and his blue Angel...

Why? See! He is able to answer it!

THE BLUE ANGEL, by Lucas, translates:

Lucas had just come to that enormous house and he was exploring the new and unknown space, which was full of objects that he considered attractive to his Young age. Together with Aunt Marta, they went to the toy room, on the second floor of the house, so that he could choose a toy to play with. He looked at the many options available for him in the room. The boy had a huge smile on his face and his eyes were shining.

“This one here” said Lucas.

“This one is too small and it is made of plaster, it may easily break it or even loose it. What about something larger?” asked Aunt Marta, showing him some of the more attractive toys.

Shy, Lucas decided not to take any toys with him. When he got to the swimming pool, he sat down next to it, his feet on the water, his eyes staring at nothing, refusing all invitations to jump in the water. Looking displaced, he was just staring at the children.

In a room separated by a wall, the whole Family was sitting together celebrating Christmas Eve and sharing memories. Even so, something attracted Marta’s attention. She could see an Angel close to the door and, feeling her heart grip tightly, she ran to the boy. Filled with horror, he was trying to find a support for his hands while his head went up and down in the water. In the meantime, the other children were scared when they understood what was going on.

“Kids, don’t do it!” screamed Marta holding on the stairs of the swimming pool, extending her body trying to grab him by his arm.

“The Angel” said the boy, speaking with difficulty, choking on water “The Angel...”

And, in a really strange reaction, he calmed down, stretching his arm towards his Aunt and holding her hand. She was able to take him out of the water. Having Lucas in his arms, Marta ran for help. At the end of the day, with a nostalgic look, and still being under the impact of the day, Marta was staring at the crystal clear and clean water, thinking about what the boy wanted to say with “Angel”. Could it be the same Angel she saw in the living room? At this moment, she saw something in the water. She jumped in the water, picking something up from the bottom of the swimming pool and, when she got back on the surface, she had a small plaster blue Angel in her hands. Are there Angels taking care of children?

Only Lucas would be able to answer this question, making people travel to their inner being, making them understand words that they did not pronounce. We are essentially human, looking for purity of being, amplitude of psyche and emotional excellence. As I mentioned before: a little of me, about us, about everybody...!

Beatriz Campos – Psychologist - Brazil

The blog for 'Brit Writers and Writers Everywhere' blog.

In praise of writing groups by Jackie Biggs

There is nothing like it is there? The immense buzz you get when a new idea forms. Inspiration works in many ways – but it is less of a solitary experience than many people may think.

The hint of an idea for a new story or poem can just wink at you from somewhere unexpected, or the concept for a whole novel can hit you right in the face. Sketches of outlines and great detailed plans emerge from the least likely places. It can happen anywhere, any time.

Sometimes solitary walks on deserted beaches work for me, but I have found that writing workshops in groups with others can be really productive places for ideas.

You never know where these things will take you.  A visualisation exercise in one I attended recently took me straight into the House of My Imagination.  I was very surprised by what I found there.

It was scary opening that door;  would there be anything there, might the place actually be empty?

At the same time I was slightly annoyed that I was being told by the workshop leader that my imagination is contained in a building, albeit itself an imaginary one -- because I felt walls would constrain ideas and inspiration.

Wrong on both counts.

I walked through the door – straight into a huge party with loads of people, music, laughter, dancing. And I saw that I could walk through all this into quieter spaces, full of light. I could make it all whatever I wanted, or simply watch what happened. And plenty happened.

This is a place to dance and to play, to laugh and to rest and wait, all in the same moment. It is whatever you want it to be. It is the home of the fire of your ideas – and we all have one of those. Finding the door is the important bit.

We were told in this visualisation exercise to bring one object out of the house with us. I couldn’t do that either without resisting the leading voice – I wanted two items! But because this was the house of my imagination I could do what I liked and I did bring two objects back.

One is a stone jar, an empty vessel, that can hold ideas and feelings, a source of endless inspiration.  The other item was a beautiful crystal glass, empty but flashing in the sunshine, sending lights rays in all directions – ready to spark off new ideas.

So, do not be afraid. You simply have to imagine your imagination  -- and it is there.

You alone can give that imagination permission to do exactly as it wishes….

by Jackie Biggs

The blog for 'Brit Writers and Writers Everywhere' blog.

COME ON BRIT WRITER'S POETS - TIME IS RUNNING OUT!

Come on  Brit Writer's poets - time is running out!

HEART SHOOTS - The 2013 anthology for

Macmillan Cancer Support

is open for poetry submissions until 15th November 2012.

Following on from Indigo Dreams Publishing successful SOUL FEATHERS

we are again working with Macmillan on their next fundraising anthology.

Visit IDP's Macmillan Cancer Support page for full submission details:

http://www.indigodreamsbookshop.com/#/macmillan-cancer/4567736428

The general theme is love and relationships, or specific cancer related.

You can see above the company you'll be keeping - and many more 'names' will be added.

SOUL FEATHERS reached #2 in Waterstone's Best Sellers poetry titles - we hopw to go one better and hope that your name is up there with the best.

Let's see Brit Writer's poets in the anthology, and together help the wonderful charity that is

Macmillan Cancer Support

Thank you

Ronnie Goodyer - IDP

in partnership with Macmillan.

INDIGO DREAMS PUBLISHING - Proud sponsors of Brit Writer's Awards

A Library: A Necessity or Luxury by Rumki Chowdhry

Henry Ward Beecher (1813-1887), a social reformer, once said, 'A library is not a luxury but one of the necessities of life.'

I think he'd have a heart attack if he were to time travel forward in H.G. Wells' fictitious time machine. Library. What is it? One can say, a plethora of information or room full of bookshelves and books; another can say, a digital archive on the Net; or someone could call it...the dying. E BOOKS. Does that ring a bell? 'Sony eBooks' or 'Amazon Kindle?' I think you catch my drift.

Libraries are evolving with time; they not only have books, but also free internet access, private study/social rooms and entertainment. They have become a social platform. 

Author of 'Isolation' and 'It Can Always Get Worse' says, 'What's cheaper than a gallon of gas? An eBook. Save a dollar, stay home and read!' 

Think of it like On-line shopping. A lot of people prefer it to physically going to shop. And a lot of people don't have the time for it, with work and family responsibilities. Furthermore, after a hard day's work, people just want to relax. For me, relaxation is opening up a good book for read. But, nowadays, I'm even considering publishing my own eBook.... 

It's definitely the way of the future. But does this mean that libraries are dead or dying? On the contrary, they are evolving or conforming with the technological changes of 'today.' 

And well, I say, 'Why not!' Telephones have evolved into mobile telephones; horse carriages...into auto mobiles  and encyclopaedias ..into the Internet/Web/Net, whatever you call it. Personally, I love the smell and feel of a physical book. But lovers of books are not necessarily haters of modern technology and vice versa. 

You decide. Ebook, physical book, or both? It's just personal preference. 

I hope books continue to exist and don't end in the same fate as it was in 'Time Machine.'

by Rumki Chowdhry

The Unofficial 'Brit Writers and Writers Everywhere' blog.