So this is what it looks like outside my window at the moment! (Vurry pretty, though potentially quite damaging to tonight’s planned trip to Dublin and popcorn-guzzling enjoyment of Les Mis. Ah well…)
I won’t blind your eyes with an interior pic because I am currently cross-legged on my bed, still sporting mismatched pj’s, wrapped in the husband’s dressing gown, enjoying watching the valley fill with snow and TRYING TO WRITE THIS DAMNED BOOK (I say it every time – but I swear, I swear, this is the book that will kill me)
I’m very excited for next Tuesday. That’s the day I start working with the TY students in Palmerstown Community School. For the next month 20 students and I are going to be working on a graphic novel project which they will write, draw and assemble themselves. The project is called ‘voice’ and has its foundations in the idea that unless we are the ones doing the telling, our truths will never truly be reflected in the stories we see, read and hear. Each student has four pages of graphic novel artwork in which they can tell a story of any genre, in any style, on any topic. The only rule is that the story (no matter how fantastical) must contain a grain of truth with relates to them or to their world. Hopefully there will be a book of very unique stories at the end of it, and an exhibition of the students’ work. I’ll blog as we go along and keep you posted as to our progress Might even get the students to come along and talk to you themselves.
For now, back to this writing lark…
For your dubious delectation, here is a section from yesterday’s work:
After the dance, the soldiers pushed forward for their garlands They smelled different. They seemed taller. Many of them were chewing some strong smelling substance which turned their spittle red. When they smiled their teeth looked bloody. For a moment I was actually afraid of them. I saw Pascalle grip Primo by the arm and pull him from the attention of two brash (and obviously very interested) young soldiers. I had time to witness her slip a string of amber beads around his neck, then my vision was blocked by one of the soldiers stooping to receive the garland I held in my arms.
She had a cigarillo dangling from the corner of her mouth. Her lips and teeth were vivid with that violent stain. But she grinned at me with all a soldier’s familiar tolerance and humour, and as I slipped the garland around her neck she said, ‘Hello, sweetling. Remember me?’