Winter Poems by Nina Milton

WINTER TREES

They are matchless,

My trees in winter. 

While I watch telly and eat carbs, 

Put the fire on, the heating up, 

They stand naked to the battle;

Steady for storm, ready for gale. 

Winter trees communicate in semaphore

Black flags against the half-day’s light.

They are gallows for bats,

Rigging for gulls,

Blue cages for robins 

Steeples for stormcocks.

In the cold sun, 

The oaks glow emerald with moss;

The planes strike piebald patterns;

Birch trunks shimmer like a high moon. 

I pull on gloves, hat, scarves,

Brave the cold to watch 

As they wait secure, 

Dreaming sap dreams,

Expectant for spring.

CAILLIACH 

                                                                                   Scrag End,

                                                                                   Hag wending

                                                                                   Her cackling flight

                                                                                   Over the mushroom yews.

                                                                                   The Samhuin night holds her,

                                                                                    Unfolds her soaring cloak

                                                                                    As she rides her birch broom high.

http://themotherhouseofthegoddess.com/

2013/12/21/winter-solstice-reflections-on-an-cailleach/

Storm Eye

Borne higher 

Than Circling wind,

A vortex for a throne.

Below, as we run for cover

She shrieks a laugh and spins

Stridng the tides.

Boughs creak

Clouds flapping

Seas flooding, seeing blood.

She shakes the earth 

Till fire spews.

Life’s elemental horrors are hers

As she beats out the storm

Enough! 

Misshapen crone, 

Winter harpy - time for home,

Let late winter snows gentle 

Lambs and snowdrops into life,

I implore, beseech you, hag,

It’s Bridget’s time, so pack your bag.

(the Cailliach is a Scottish Goddess, whose legend states she epitomizes hard winter)

DUSK TRAIN

The train flies; 

Rails roar in terror of looming night

Miles shudder on

Into a dimmed future.

Sky is ashen with a splash of paint,

Tree, pole, nudging horse in silhouette against it. 

http://www.trains-wallpapers.com/
train,station-winter-train-night

The colour drains; 

Green frowns into grey, 

Brown slides towards black,

Your eyes get dim

In this darkening world, dotted  

With small square stars of windows.

Willows as fluffed as candyfloss;

Oaks flash past like lollipops, poplars are batons 

Directing the chugging wheels.

Settling cows hunch in the loaming.

Look away – don’t guess the shapeless things out there.

When you look back, day’s death is fulfilled

And all that can be seen is the sound of the train.

STANTON DREW STONE CIRCLES

Photograph of Stanton Drew
 by the late Carni Tipton

Suppose the dolmen that squats high on the track

Are three petrified shepherds who never sleep – 

Moonbeam white, resting as they watch their sheep

Leaning to rest each on the other’s back?

While down in the valley, three circles lie,

Earth-rooted like old men’s molars, they stare

Past the earth’s harried timekeeping to where 

Stars wheel backwards and the moon’s phases fly

To the beat of these sandstone hearts. One ring

Lies fallow, resting in the weedy grass, 

The grandest circle is spaced wide and fast

The third stays tight, upright; I hear it sing.

It breaths the pulse notes of a well-tuned harp

It holds the secrets of a trusted chart.

BLACK MOUNTAIN, BRECONS.

My feet stand deep by your heel in the gloom

Of your towering wilds.

Storm wave, Wailing Wall,

They named you Black Hill,

The back end of Brecon’s

Mountain range where, disconsolate, you loom.

Ceridwen loves to feel the dusk enslave,

Wrap wild anguish round

A heart. Black Mountain must

Belong to her,

Stirring an iron-cast pot

Inside a hollow crag, some dark-eyed cave

Murky shadows move me; what you are, Ker –  

Goddess, hag, or just a tale 

From old-folk years? No answer.

Only the wind, steep with dread

Flap of umbrella bat, bleak caw of crow,

As they soar into the desolate air.

From the break of dawn to moon-slivered night,

Herbs lie in curling steam.

Cauldron-sour on the tongue,

Perilous to steal, it will devour,

Turn you mad or

Offer transformation into light.

I turn upon my heel, can’t hold my place.

The barren cliffside sucks

At hope, drags away cheer.

My shoulders shudder 

At the goddess glowering in her crag

And want to weep at your heartbreaking face.

Winter Poems by Nina Milton

Lila by Marilynne Robinson

There are books that draw the emotion out of you. Historical romances that leave you in a heap of tears. Thrillers that sheer your nails down to the quick. These are good books – I hope my Shaman Mysteries can cause such reactions in people.

Connected  by Kasey McMahon 

fabricates a networked goddess 

out of Ethernet cables.

 jamesmaybe.com

But there are also books – rarities – that draw emotion into you. Such books often leave you feeling as you never have before and words cannot aways express such emotions, but feel like the bundles of cables inside telecommunication boxes. Not only are these books rare, they are usually destined to become classics.

I’ve come to reading Marilynne Robinson a little late in the day. She has already been awarded the Pulitzer Prize, the Orange Prize and was long-listed for the Booker with Lila, her fourth book, which I’ve just finished.  By the end of this intense ride into her work, I realized it might have enjoyed it even more if I’d started at the beginning.

Robinson’s last three books has become a trilogy set in the fifties, focused on the Iowan town of Gilead, where John Ames, the preacher, has lived all his life. The first book is a posthumous letter from the elderly John Ames to his young son. The second book is an account of Ames’ friend and godson. We meet all these characters in book three, Lila, which tells the story of Lila, Ames’ wife. 

Lila, perhaps in her thirties, blows into town when Ames is 67 and widowed. She has spent her entire life so far on the road and has no idea even who her father is. There’s a knife hidden down her garter which has its own gruesome story, and she’s living in a little den by the river, where she’s hidden the few pounds in her possession. Ames becomes alive in Lila’s presence and marries her

“I felt as though I recognised you somehow,” he tells Lila. “It was a remarkable experience. It was.” She says: “But you don’t really know nothing about me.” 

 Marilynne Robinson 
Photo: Ulf Andersen
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/bookreviews
/11151458/lila-by-marilynne-robinson.html

Looking into the photo of Marilynn Robinson, I can see in her face how it is possible that she can write with such a heightened intensity, with the elegance of a poet and the understanding of a philosopher. She has a regal look, which feels both humble and full of humour. That face promises great writing, of depth and breadth, and Lila answers that promise, filling me, as I’ve said, with feelings I could not express in words. Something like longing, perhaps. Something like death and birth. As a Christian, Robinson is a sophisticated thinker. Although this is the story of a fallen woman saved by a minister of the church, there is nothing pious about it. Instead, it is open and subtle and passionate. I can’t guess what the writer meant Lila to be ‘about’, but to me it looks at how we exist in the world for just such a short time, and how our spirits respond to that. 

Anatole Broyard wrote of Robinson in The New York Times: “It’s as if, in writing…she broke through the ordinary human condition with all its dissatisfactions, and achieved a kind of transfiguration.”

Lila is not a book with a complex plot, although its structure is elaborately folded into Lila's past, which Ames does not know about, and the present, which builds a surprising amount of tension out of Lila’s restlessness, now pregnant with her husband’s child. All her life she has survived by keeping society at bay, and still considers running away. “I don’t trust nobody,” Lila says, and Ames replies: “No wonder you’re tired.”

I have been missing something from my life, and that thing is reading Marilynne Robinson. I’m so glad I spotted her on the long list for the Man Booker. How Lila failed to make the transfer to the short list is a puzzle  – the Guardian described it as ‘the biggest surprise’. But I doubt Robinson is unduly worried. For a start, she’s recently been presented with a National Humanities Medal by Barack Obama. For another, she doesn’t look the sort.

Beneath the Tor: A Shaman Mystery

 Thank you, Publisher's Weekly, for the great review of my new book!

Nina Milton. Midnight Ink (midnightinkbooks.com), $14.99 trade paper (432p) ISBN 978-0-7387-4382-0

At the start of British author Milton’s unsettling third Shaman mystery (after 2014’s Unraveled Visions), a group of 10 people, all “keen to explore shamanism,” climb to the top of Glastonbury Tor to celebrate Midsummer Eve. When Alys Hollingberry, who has been dancing nonstop, suddenly collapses, Sabbie Dare phones emergency services. Another participant says it’s too late (“I saw her spirit go”). On the day of the inquest, Alys’s grieving husband, Brice, receives a strange email (“The Tor needs no sacrifice. The utter waste of blessed life signals doomsday”). It’s signed Morgan le Fay. Since Brice doesn’t want the police involved, he asks Sabbie’s help in identifying Morgan le Fay and figuring out this person’s connection to Alys. Meanwhile, a priest alleges that Alys took drugs during the celebration on the tor that may have led to her death.

 Milton puts an intriguing New Age spin on the traditional English mystery. 

Beneath the Tor is out in December if you live in the US; if you live in the UK you will have to wait until January 2016. But you can order your copy from Amazon now at the pre-order price.

And if you'd like to hear me read from all three of the trilogy, be at The Cellar Bar next Friday the 30th October at 8pm for Cellar Bards

http://www.publishersweekly.com/978-0-7387-4382-0

Diana Cambridge…Secrets of a Writer in Residence

What to wear? 

That shouldn’t be my first concern. But as I pack for my week as Writer In Residence to Sherborne Literary festival – that’s from Wednesday 14 to Sunday 18 October – it’s what I’m thinking. 

Diana Cambridge

The answer? Black! With yellow as an alternative.

Comfortable shoes are a must. So I put my heels in my bag and wear flats up the hill to the Digby Hall in Sherborne. I used to do this as a teenager, as I couldn’t totter to a pub but could nip into the Ladies before anyone saw me and change shoes there.

Princess Michael is one of the speakers at this prestige Litfest: also Victoria Hislop. I plan to squeeze into both of these – one of the lovely elements of WIR is that you can get into events free. The other fantastic bonus is choosing anything you like from their gorgeous café. Last year I’d eaten three hand made chocolate eclairs by 11.a.m most days. The café  - yes, they do wine - is run by Sue Adams, sister of the late author of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

My drop-in writing clinic is open each day. You can email work ahead- up to 2000 words – for a critique and make a booking if you want. The festival charge £5 for the one-to-one clinic consultations. It’s money well spent! Several of my previous clinic students have been published. Already I’m working my way through ten pieces of work already submitted. Topics range from spy thrillers to sci-fi to playscripts to nature writing and more.

 I try to avoid dealing with poetry, as I can never think of anything to say about it.

I’m always in awe of the gifted beginners, the talented writers who have never had any training, yet are intuitive about skilful management of words. Also the many writers who complete a whole work without any promise of publication; just relying on their own faith in their work and their market research.  This is one of the signals that mark out the real writer, I think – the discipline to keep going. To finish.

Many good writers succeed on the words side, but haven’t quite worked out the plot or the structure of their material. It’s structure which counts. Your words can be perectly fluent, your descriptive abilities exemplary – but if you haven’t a story, you’re clobbered.

Also basic “holes” in plots can trip you up. Like a daily newspaper journalist, you have to check every fact, ensure that situations are credible. I find that writers often don’t care for this bit. Some fall down on targeting their reader. Writing a novel that has no reader or niche is a bit like creating a product – let’s say edible bow ties at £50 - for a market that doesn’t exist. Maybe that’s not the best example.

My first task as WIR is to set up my room. Most Litfests are run by volunteers, and the more you can do to help them, the better. This includes setting up chairs, clearing space, putting up your posters, meeting and greeting. Although the clinic is billed at 15 minutes per person, most chats go on much longer – if there’s no one waiting I’m happy to do that.

I may have seen students work ahead – or they may really drop in, with ideas. Often what I do is confidence boosting. It’s so easy to lose heart when you’re a writer! Plus, it’s a lonely job and family aren’t often sincere about their interest. 

Dianna with Sue Adams
 sister of the late Doug ( Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy)
Go to  sherborne literary society for more details

I prepare handouts, booklists and critiques ahead ready for the students. I think it’s essential to have something “to take away” – if they’ve been nice enough to come to see me, I want to give them as much as I can in return.

The atmosphere at Sherborne is energetic (Director is the amazing Judith Spelman) and the talks inspiring. Most events are booked solid: the stage, IT and acoustics are very well organized, which isn’t always the case at some Litfests. 

Some of my drop-ins are returning students, many have achieved some success and need advice on the next step – or they may have hit a roadblock. Winning a big award and then not winning anything for ages can be hard, even lead to depression. It’s a bit like going from MD to office junior. All I can say is to keep trying – if you’ve been successful once, you will be again. That question “What am I doing wrong?” haunts all one-time winners whose success is followed by a long period of rejection. The answer is – you’re not doing anything wrong! “They” are!

Why do we always think it’s us?

I work right through the day and never turn anyone down – if I can’t fit them in instantly, I’ll make a slot for them later. It would be so depressing to drop in at a writing clinic and find there’s no room for you. The advice I give tends to be practical: I can’t bear writing advice that’s too precious. For example, the question: what IS a short story? followed by an hour of heavy academic theory. I sat through one of these once, longing for a Haribo.  

In the evening I may go to Litfest events, and do some work for the next day – I now have an Android. I absolutely love being invited out for a drink. And it’s wonderful not to have to put out the bin bags. Though I often forget anyway.

It's not to late to visit the Sherborne Literary festival

Wednesday 14 to Sunday 18 October.

And there's still time to mail Diana for an appointment.

diana@dianacambridge.co.uk

Visit www.sherborneliterarysociety.com

The UK Shamanic Gathering

http://www.earthspirit-centre.co.uk/

I've been away from my desk. I've been away from my everyday life. I've been on a journey…to Somerset, to the spirit world, to an altered reality of love and light and fun...  

In Dundon, a small village on the Somerset Moors – regular readers will already know how I love those moors – there is a place called Earth Spirit, where an original long barn and farm outbuildings have been turned into a centre for spiritual growth. 

Doris (Rachel) and Nick Breeze Wood

Almost seventy shamans gathered here, to share their love of shamanism. They came from all corners of the UK and beyond, and from many shamanic cultures. Some were young and fresh-faced – some were grey-haired but still keen-witted.

The first thing I was asked to do, as I arrived on Monday afternoon, was sign a glittery homemade 80th birthday card for Leo Rutherford, one of the grand elders of shamanic practice in Britain, and founder of The Eagle’s Wing Centre.  Leo led us in drumming and chanting later on that week, and I had trouble keeping up with his energy levels.

Leo wasn't the only fit, active grizzle-bearded elder. John is still building and re-erecting stone circles (although he admitted he mostly gave directions nowadays), and offers labyrinth workshops too.

And so to our opening ceremony, which set the feel of the gathering wonderfully. First Nick Breeze Wood, the Welsh-based shaman who edits Sacred Hoop magazine, lit Grandfather Fire, calling down the spirits to protect and guide us through our gathering. This fire was kept alight, despite downpours, throughout the four days, and each morning, I’d go across the damp grass to give offerings to it. Grandfather Fire particularly like tobacco, chocolate and leaves soaked in vodka, but seemed also happy to accept scented herbs. We retuned to the barn, and Sika, a musician and artist, took us directly into an altered state of consciousness with the primordial sounds from his range of didjeridoos and other indigenous musical instruments. He played for what must have been hours, seemingly without breath, but it felt like no time…all time. By then it was late at night (for me, anyway!) and I fell into my bed and slept deeply, forgetting all my dreams as they passed by me.

The barn, with Sika
(background of the picture)

At breakfast, the long tables were full of chattering people. You might wonder what shamans talk about over cereal and boiled eggs, and the truth is…everything, of course. Although the shamans are well known for changing their conscious states so that they can enter ‘non ordinary’ reality, most believe it’s important to also keep their feet on the ground. Everyone wanted to communicate with everyone else, sharing and learning and laughing. Something struck me as I chatted to people – the confirmation that there are as many ways to approach this spiritual pathway as there are shaman. I mostly use my shamanic practice to dip into a trance state to find story and character for my writing. Others use it to heal themselves of difficult traumas, or to make sense of  life. Many at the gathering were practitioners; seeking healing and advice from compassionate spirits, on behalf of other people. Spiritual healing is complementary to modern medicine and other therapies and can be the answer to things in our lives that trouble us the most, but which would never respond to prescription pills. And some at the gathering were teachers of shamanic practice, including the organizers, Howard and Elsa, who I’d previously worked under.

Each person at the gathering will have their own favourite moments and memories, and for me, there are three – morning drumming, the Medicine Wheel Workshop and the Storytelling Evening. 

We’d most of us brought our drums, and right throughout the gathering, there was drumming, stomping, chanting and singing. What else would you expect from a bunch of shamans? When Nick Breeze Wood opened the start of that first full day with a burst of communal drumming, instantly, I found myself on a journey. As I drummed in the Earth Spirit Barn, I was also in my grove of trees, with my guardian, Esmeralda. She is an elder, a crone with wrinkled skin, but she is also a mother, who, in the 15 years I’ve worked with her, has constantly suckled a baby to her breast – a tiny, naked boy with golden skin. As I drummed, she plucked the baby from her breast and handed it to me. I was shocked – I didn’t know if I wanted responsibility for a spirit baby, but I guess after 15 years, she might have been a bit tired herself! Over the course of the four days, the Golden Boy grew, until he was, indeed, fifteen, and has become a spirit guide to me in his own right.

I had always wanted to learn more about the medicine wheel. I had a Celtic apprenticeship in shamanism with Caitlan Matthews, so most of the imagery and symbolism I encounter on my shamanic journeys is based around the beliefs of the Ancient Britons, and I wanted to know more about this Native American way of working. Carrie Jost is a healer who uses the medicine wheel in her work. She showed us how it can shift energy – ridding us of bad and shoring up good. She got us all working with these invisible but strongly felt energies. Carrie had created a circle on the barn floor, showing the 8 compass points. We were asked to walk around the outside of the circle, to find a comfortable place in the room. Everyone seemed to find that easy to do, but then we had to find a place of discomfort. I was dubious, but when I reached the south-east, I instantly felt shivery, that sensation one gets when one is about to incubate a cold. I hadn’t believed I would find such a place, but I was standing in it, and despite the fact that there were over 30 people in the group, I was the only person standing at this compass point. Carrie held us in these ‘uncomfortable places’, asking us to send energy around the circle in an 8-pointed star. When the people of the East sent their energy to me, I felt it as the colour of a carnelian crystal, with filled me with courage, and heard a low humming sound that vibrated right at the base of my spine. It warmed me wonderfully. 

Carrie Thomas, a horticulturist and speaker,
 with her crystals and flower essences

The other huge delight for me was the storytelling evening with Andrew Steed. I love myth, legend and fairy tales, and Andrew’s retelling of the story of Tuireann (Tyren), who was magically transformed by a jealous fairy-woman into a wolf-hound held us all spellbound. But it was his ‘reclaimed’ stories that hit the spot with me. No, these ‘reclaimed’ stories aren’t, as I expected, stories found in cobwebbed libraries, or scratched in pictures on the wall of ancient tombs, they are the stories of ourselves, that we hate other people retelling, because they make us blush and duck behind the sofa. To boost our self esteem, Andrew recommends we turn these ‘you’ll never guess what he did’ stories into something that can make our friends laugh with us, instead of at us. I have several reclaimed stories brewing, believe me!

It was a sad moment, on Thursday, when we scraped the ash from the still burning Grandfather Fire, and let him die. But, just as we were getting all pumped up with our grand closing ceremony, Doris arrived in our midst. Doris is a sacred clown. She’s got a bit of a lady-beard, and forgot to take the curlers out of her hair that morning, and was carrying a gaily painted watering can and a microphone that didn’t work (an ongoing joke during the gathering). She read us her rhyming account of the gathering. Sixty-plus shamans doubled up with laughter.Thank you Rachel; Doris successfully pricked our high-flying bubbles and brought us down to earth with a chuckle.

Churchyard Yew, Dundon

To quote Leo Rutherford from his book, Your Shamanic Path (2001, Piaktus)…The struggle to make sense of life in the third-dimensional spacesuit we call a body is as important today as at anytime. One could almost say even more so now that in the ‘developed’ part of the world we are polluting our home planet and upsetting the balance of nature and our atmosphere as never before. We desperately need a path that can bring us back into contact and communion with the primal elemental forces of life...

If you ever go to Dundon, do drop in on the churchyard, as I did, to see the magnificent yew, or walk the surrounding hills and find the iron-age hill-fort. And maybe spend a quiet hour in a nature reserve, listening to and watching the beauty that is our natural world.

The Seven Novels that Entirely Changed Me

A Turkish police officer carries Aylan Kurdi
who drowned in a failed attempt to
sail to the Greek island of Kos.
Photograph: Reuters

A photograph on the front page of newspapers, showing a tiny child lying in the surf. Imagery is the most immediate ways to make a shift, to change hearts, minds, lives. After seeing the pictures of Aylan Kurdi, the rhetoric transformed. People thought again. Governments finally got their fingers out. It is quite remarkable how a visual image can capture and express deep emotion and tell vast stories to make a difference to lives. 

Seven Books that Entirely Change Me

But although imagery can be life-changing, it’s long been my belief that novels are like that too. If a writer wants to make a statement that will change people’s minds, they are better writing a story, not an article; a novel, not a treatise.

Below, I’ve chosen seven novels that completely changed me in some way – my thinking, my approach to life, or my perception of the world.

BOOK ONE

One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, published in 1962. During the seventies, when Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn was hitting headlines, I read most of his works. Some, like The Gulag Archipelago, are long and involved, and written to make people aware of what was going on in the USSR. But one of his smaller novels hit me the hardest. Denisovich is an account of life in a forced labour camp, and therefore of Stalinist repression. The book graphically illustrates what was happening behind the iron curtain – why people were thrown into camps and what happened to them there. Probably more than his longer non-fiction accounts, this was the book that forced the West to stop ignoring violent breaches of human rights behind the “iron-curtain.” Strangely, though, what struck me about it was its optimism, its emphasis on hope. I most clearly remember the scenes when, for instance, Ivan managed to gain a cigarette and inhaled the sweet smoke deep into his lungs. It seemed to sum up how humans will always seek something to cling to and make the most of the tiniest moments of joy.

BOOK TWO

Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie (1981). I read this directly after Satanic Verses. At that time I was writing short stories and thinking of how I could write a novel for children. Rushdie's books made me realize anything was possible. Okay, I cannot reach Rushdie’s dazzling heights of invention and literary prose, but I loved how he used his own personal experiences, while pushing the novel form to extremes. Rushdie was born in 1947, a year before the transition to independence in India, and used that moment in time to create a dazzling, game-changing novel of a young man born at the very moment of Indian independence. “Let your mind go,” Rushdie seemed to be saying directly to me, “and you can write the things you want to say in the way you want to say them.”

BOOK THREE

Candide by François-Marie Arouet, also known as Voltaire, was published in 1759 during the European 'enlightenment’ and at the time was banned as blasphemous, and politically seditious – Candide pokes a lot of fun at the establishment of the day. Voltaire was a sharp witty man, and (the two don’t often seem to go together) a philosopher, who strongly opposed certain Enlightenment ideas about social class. Candide is a naive young man who grows up in a baron’s castle. His tutor Pangloss teaches him that this is “the best of all possible worlds.” Candide is discovered kissing the baron’s daughter, his secret love, and is expelled from his home. He wanders the world with Pangloss, surviving the most awful disasters and tortures, while Pangloss continues to describe life as ‘the best of all possible worlds”. Shortly after reading this novella, I saw the film Oh, Lucky Man, staring Malcolm McDowell, a sprawling musical intended as an allegory on life in the 20th century. I could not help linking the two stories. I still to this day believe that the screenplay takes its inspiration from Candide.

BOOK FOUR

"Marley's Ghost",
original illustration by John Leech
 from A Christmas Carol

A Christmas Carol. Did you know that when Dickens wrote this little novella in 1843 as part of his ‘Christmas Series’, it changed all our Christmases? Traditional practices were going out of fashion at the time, and the book revived them. Groaning boards of turkey and iced cake, presents, dancing and mistletoe were all saved for our enjoyment…or not! At the same time it was a clear comment on  early Victorian society, as when the Ghost of Christmas Present reveals two children saying; “This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased.”

For me, the book was a tradition in itself. Every year, as my children grew, I’d read it, over four or five nights, ending the story with Scrooge’s transformation on Xmas Eve. Heady days!

BOOK FOUR

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I’ve chosen this book from the series because its publication in 2002 was the moment things changed in the children’s book market. Children had always been ready love nr newly-pressed books, but these books, including the first three of JK's series, were usually about 200 pages long. Goblet weighed in at more than 600 pages and kids gobbled it up. Publishers finally realized that children loved to read and could read enormous books, as long as the words on the page moved and excited them. 

Rowling has her critics, but she is the master of 3 important areas of writing; she can extend plotting, theme and structure to allow seven long books to reach their own climax yet take you on to a final, gripping finale where all important threads are tied. She can handle a vast cast of characters, in which the least has a personality potentially as big as the protagonist. And she makes you laugh. 

BOOK FIVE

The Alchemist. I read this a long time ago, loving it to bits and lending to everyone as something they must read. This book is an epic allegory about finding and pursuing your purpose in life and  has millions of readers across the world for a reason – it’s inspiring and motivating. Published in 1988 by Paulo Coelho, it was apparently written in 2 weeks, because the writer had ‘found it in his soul’. It follows the journey of Santiago, a shepherd boy, who journeys to Egypt to seek a promised treasure. As he moves across the desert and through the market places, he meets a series of people, who, to me, represented all humanity. Its basic plot, with its remarkable ‘twist in the tale’ is ages old, though, apparently first seen in The Thousand and One Nights. 

Recently, I read it aloud to my husband who enjoyed it as much as I had. But a strange thing happened as I read it again. Perhaps I’d grown older and more cynical, but I saw nothing but flaws – simplistic, artless writing and prosaic plotting. Don’t let that put you off reading it. At the right moment in your life, it is a tremendous book that can mean everything. 

BOOK SIX

Lord of the Rings by professor  J R R Tolkien, published between 1954  and 55. I’ve read this book several times, often just turning to the songs printed within it and singing them. I’ve also loved the BBC Radio 4 serialization, which took most of those songs and put them to music, and the wonderful trilogy from Peter Jackson. 

At the time of  first reading as a girl, the book excited my young imagination. I use to believe it had changed the writing landscape – no fantasy novel had ever been written before this and no writer would ever create something so wonderful again. That 1st belief hold true, I think – there isn’t a writer alive today unaware of its impact, but probably not the 2nd and 3rd. Of course it wasn’t the first fantasy novel, and although for many years it was the best, Land of Ice and Fire may now have claim to a similar crown.

Published in 1956
with its iconic cover
by Edward Balden 

BOOK SEVEN

The Flight from the Enchanter by Iris Murdoch. This was her second book, but it was my first introduction to my number-one writing hero, which made me long to also write about love and power and goodness and beauty and what makes up a human being. Suddenly, at the age of twenty, I wanted to say great things, like Murdoch, who, being a professor of philosophy, has a far greater claim to be able to write such things than I will ever have. However, if we can’t be inspired by the great exemplars, what hope is there? 

Once I’d put down Enchanter, I went in search of all her other books, and then lay in constant wait for her to write the next, which she did, for years, every 18 or so months. Only her very last book, written while in the grip of Alzheimer’s, is not among my very favourite reads to this day. Enchanter isn’t her best book, for me that is The Sea The Sea, but it was the first I read. I loved Iris Murdoch from that moment on, and reading her made me think more deeply, write more avidly and dream great dreams.

The Shaman Mysteries Discovers their Bounce!

Writing the Shaman Mysteries by Nina Milton

This week I am on the

 "Discover Your Bounce"

 Website Blog. 

They are featuring 

me as a writer, at the time they

 are also publishing their latest

 book about well-being…

As we’ve launched The Missing Piece in Bouncing Back this week, we asked fellow writer Nina Milton to share with us the inspiration behind her books, “The Shaman Mysteries” in this guest post!

 I am a druid; a pagan path which takes me close to the earth and into the deep recesses of my mind. Shamanic techniques help me in my life – in fact they changed my life...Click to read the full article on The Shaman Mysteries

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